


It Goes, It's Golden

by lucythegoosey



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (but we know they kind of share that really), (considering he just left the band), (like zouis friendship angst is pretty centric), Angst, Bottom Louis, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, F/F, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Made In The A.M., Mile High Club, On the Road Again Tour, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, Top Harry, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 150,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucythegoosey/pseuds/lucythegoosey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chaos Zayn left in his wake wouldn't feel so disastrous if Harry had Louis. But everything between them crashed and burned a long time ago. All Harry is left with is a hopeless longing and a fear that the band's current disarray will set in for good.</p><p>... And then he finds himself stuck on a sixteen hour plane trip with Louis Tomlinson. </p><p>This could either be the most awkward flight of Harry's life, or the beginning of an atonement he's been dreaming of since 2013. </p><p><strong> Canon Compliant AU </strong> in which Harry and Louis broke under the strain of it all and now, years on, there's a chance to put all the pieces back together. Set in early April 2015 all the way through to October. Written in Harry and Louis' perspectives, alternating every chapter.</p><p>Now available in Portuguese: https://my.w.tt/cD70e61EQL</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so hello! This is my first ever attempt at a Larry fic and the first time I've ever actually published my writing. So... I guess what I'm saying is, please be gentle? 
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I don't claim any knowledge of the people mentioned and any negative (or positive!) depictions of them does not directly reflect my personal views and should not be presumed as fact either. It's all just a bit of fun! Larry is real y'all lets go!
> 
> There's a lot of canon references that'll be made throughout the story, so because I'm a little bit of a perfectionist, and for the benefit of you lovely readers, there is a list with links that'll go in the notes at the end of every chapter with sources to things mentioned in the plot. Also, some canon things are tweaked to fit the timeline so be aware of that!
> 
> Shout out to [ Phoebe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine) the best Critique Partner known to man kind, plus generally just the Angst Queen who I know I can always go to for plotting some devil incarnate type shit. You rock my world. 
> 
> I hope you all like it!
> 
> (Oh and [here's the post](http://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/149911653105/it-goes-its-golden-by-lucythegoosey-the-chaos) for this fic on Tumblr)

**P A R T O N E : B E F O R E**

_‘Oh, spaces between us, keep getting deeper, it’s harder to reach you even though I try.’_

No matter how hard he tries – searching the audience for something to hold his gaze to, a pinpoint against the waves of instinct – Harry can’t help his eyes magnetising across the stage to Louis. The heat of the spotlights and all those faces upon him aren’t enough to distract him from the boy across him – rockstar decked out in tattered jeans and a black singlet. It’s something about this song, he knows it. He’s been singing it to Louis for years. Instead of sneaking a glance back though, a smile glowing at his cheeks and a promise in his eyes, Louis just stares ahead with a vacancy that hits Harry hard in the chest. _Even when the night changes, it’ll never change me and you._ But it can – and it _did_. Yet Harry can’t help singing to the boy who can’t even acknowledge his existence in public.

He’s not sure when it all started to crumble – the foundations they’d been building together since they met at the X Factor all those years ago. There wasn’t a single event that did it – not a monumental fight like some of the gossip papers liked to describe in a detail that can’t possibly have been known to outsiders had it ever happened. No, it was more subtle than that – the distance between them aided by management, by the situation itself. One day they were best friends – more than that, behind closed doors, though even that seemed like such a distant memory Harry isn’t sure if he’s just made it up in his head. Then the next day, they were strangers; awkward attempts at avoiding contact in public, eyes glued to opposite ends of the room. A wedge forming between them that dug itself in even further once it got its footing.

There was Eleanor, who Louis had been so adamant to be in love with, while he still looked at Harry _that way_ and still held his hand when no one was looking. And when she wasn’t enough of a diversion – there was Taylor. It was like being a deer in headlights – Harry could see it coming, blindingly bright and terrifying but it was all so fast and he was so unprepared that he did nothing to run to safety.

Harry thinks Louis must know, must _feel_ his green eyes boring into the side of his head. He must know how desperately Harry clings to whatever version of Louis he can get – the performer Louis who stands with his hands stiffly behind his back (those years of body language training ingrained for good), a tight lip and a sternness about him. Harry doesn’t get to see any other Louis these days – not the lazy Louis in a hoodie and sneakers, not the prankster Louis with his mischievous grin, running to or from something backstage. He’s lucky if he gets any acknowledgement at all when the cameras aren’t rolling. If he does it’ll be a quick greeting when Louis enters the studio, or a forced remark regarding work in some way. The days of endlessly talking, of laughing until he was in stitches, of finding some way to stand as close to one another as possible wherever they were – those days were long gone. So far gone that Harry sometimes finds himself reminiscing and thinking: _did I really have something that special once upon a time?_

But if Louis does know Harry’s staring at him throughout the song, he’s sure as hell doing a good job of hiding it. He spent the entire show avoiding Harry – scratch that – _the entire tour_. Granted, it’s hardly the most joyous tour of their lives; although Zayn’s departure had only been finalised a few days ago, the build up had been months (years, if Harry is honest). The boys had known for a while that Zayn wanted out – it’d stirred under the surface of every concert, of every interview, of every studio rehearsal until one day it was all out in the open. Even with all that warning though, none of them could have really prepared for the reality of it. Because it's one thing to hear one of your best mates saying he doesn’t want to work with you anymore, and a completely different thing to have to stand in front of a crowd of thousands without him. It’s only the fourth night with just the four of them and Harry is already missing the old days.

The night goes on in a haze of songs and a crowd that wants so desperately to show its support for the abandoned boys. Harry tries to put on his usual charm; dancing around the stage and teasing the audience. But all of it feels a little laborious, like he’s carrying an invisible burden on his shoulders the entire performance. It isn’t really Zayn’s departure that brings it on, though. It has more to do with the way everyone else is dealing with it. Liam is determined to go on with the show ( _literally_ ), Niall appears the same to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough (but Harry can see the unfocused heartache in his eyes). And Louis… _well_. If Harry thought he was ignoring him before, it has only worsened with Zayn’s absence. He supposes Zayn had been the closest with Louis – now there is nobody to distract him, nobody to buffer between himself and Harry should the occasion call for it.

Harry is just glad this is the last night of the tour before the break. They all need to get away from it all and for the first time in a long time he desperately wants the show to end just so he can pack his bags and go home. Performing is his favourite part of what he does – the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the roar of the crowd, the echo of the stadium. But tonight he’s just _so tired_. He hates to be ungrateful, not after every opportunity that’s been handed to him over the years, but he can’t deny being glad to have an excuse to escape all of it – even if only for two months.

Usually Harry would stay back a day or two at the end of a tour, extend the trip so he can experience the tourist perspective of whatever country they’re in. When you travel and perform every night like they do there’s not much down time. Every second they aren’t on stage is time spent rehearsing or sleeping. And although Harry would do the same this time – explore every inch of Dubai and experience everything it has to offer in the span of 48 hours, hoodie and sunglasses his only vice – he finds himself spending a majority of the two days before his flight out lying in bed. It’s as if he’s been on this mountain peak for a life time and suddenly it's time to come back down to earth – and _god_ , it’s a long way down.

Liam is going back to London for a few days to see his family and Niall mentions something about a football match, but Harry’s not entirely sure. He doesn’t even bother to pose the question of what Louis is going to be doing before they start writing the album in a few weeks. He doesn’t want to hear the automated response, the generic spiel about ‘having a good time with the lads’ at some club Harry doesn’t even know the name of. None of them have even mentioned Zayn by name – not to each other anyway. Harry wonders briefly what his ex-band mate is doing right this second, before deciding he doesn’t want to know.

Making his way to the airport, Harry’s on autopilot. He doesn’t register the landmarks they pass in the car – blurring into the landscape of a city he’ll never get to know. He feels exhausted, so much so that he’s jolted awake when they arrive, having fallen asleep somewhere along the journey. As far as he knows, he’s the last of the band to head home; wasting his free time in Dubai hauled up in his hotel room watching _Friends_ on repeat. Niall texted at some point checking in on him, but aside from that, Harry has been a recluse the past few days.

They drive him straight to the airport’s tarmac where a private jet awaits him, bypassing security and most importantly, the crowd of paps that surely have been building in numbers outside the terminal. He’s not sure how they always know where he is, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to face them today. He’s the very definition of dressed down – a grey hoodie and denim jeans, sunglasses hiding the bags under his eyes, his long hair pulled back in a messy bun. _Hardly_ photo ready.

There’s a bunch of security people just standing around, their yellow vests reflecting in the early morning sun. One guy grabs Harry’s bags for him and another stands awkwardly, waiting for him at the stairs of the plane. Harry gives him a little nod before he climbs the steps, two at a time.

And it sounds stupid – _cliché_ even – but he thinks for a moment that what he sees next is a mirage.

Because he’s supposed to be flying alone. Because everyone around them has been trying to prevent anything like this from happening. Because he hasn’t flown with Louis Tomlinson in years, but the boy is sitting right in front of him.

Harry hesitates at the door as if he’s just walked in on something intimate and private. Louis looks up from his phone, mirroring Harry’s look of confusion. Harry pulls his sunglasses into his hair, thinking that the tint of the glass has tricked his eyes. Louis stares back, hovering on the verge of a greeting. It’s possibly the most awkward five seconds of Harry’s life.

“What’s he doin’ here?” Harry quips in a low tone to the stewardess walking away from him. Louis is far enough away that he can’t hear them. She pauses, looks at Louis and then back to Harry with a casualness he could never achieve in the present moment.

There _must_ be some kind of misunderstanding, Harry assumes. There’s _no way_ management would let this fly, not when there would be paparazzi at the other end of this flight ready to capture every incriminating shot of them leaving together.

“Excuse me?” she responds politely, clearly not getting it at all. She is just a stewardess after all. Why would she know anything about Harry and Louis? Not that there’s anything _to_ know about them.

“We’re not meant to travel together,” he elaborates in that thick morning drawl, trying his best not to make a scene, “Just ask our manager.” He adds the last part with less professionalism and more ice, bitterness laced in every syllable. He can’t remember a time when he could be alone with Louis without prior approval from some businessman in a suit. He almost wants it to be a mistake – some terrible mix-up – just so he doesn’t have to be alone with Louis.

The stewardess looks back at Harry, perplexed, her eyes darting between the pair of them. She seems to register the tension in the air, or maybe she just doesn’t know the answer to Harry’s question – either way she gestures for him to wait before leaving to find someone higher in command.

In the moment she’s gone, Harry wanders a little further into the cabin, dropping his carry-on bag in the chair closest to him. It’s small, but spacious – with comfortably large seats designed to host no more than ten people. It’s the same as every private jet Harry’s been on; only, the quiet and emptiness is magnified in Louis’ presence.

Neither speak – either because there isn’t anything to say until they get answers, or because the concept of small talk with each other is too uncomfortable to even try. When the stewardess comes back into the cabin she’s wearing a bemused expression, both boys eying her for answers.

“I’m not really sure what happened here. Are you guys okay with just sharing the flight?” her accent is thicker than Harry initially thought, but it’s not enough to distract him from the situation at hand.

He turns to Louis, who’s in the process of gathering his things clumsily.

“I can wait for another flight,” Louis offers softly, breaking the silence between them. But before he can say anything else, Harry’s shaking his head profusely.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says, his hand raising carelessly in gesture for Louis to stay put, all pretence of hostility lost within a second. He looks back at the stewardess. “We’ll be fine,” he tells her softly, hoping he hasn’t caused any trouble, after all she's just trying to do her job. “Thanks so much.”

Then they’re alone again, and Harry’s taking as much time as he can fiddling with his carry-on bag to avoid conversation. He has a split second to decide whether to sit with Louis or not – he opts for a seat by the window across him so that there’s space, but not far enough away that it seems like a deliberately unfriendly gesture.

“This’ll be all over the papers tomorrow,” says Louis with a shaky laugh, managing to appear relaxed and reclined in his seat just over a metre from him. He doesn’t even have to elaborate for Harry to know what he’s referring to. The pair of them haven’t been spotted outside of arenas and interviews for as long as the brunet can remember.

Harry looks up from rearranging his belongings in the seat next to him, the frown etched into his forehead smoothing as he laughs – it’s a little forced and a little uncomfortable, but it’s better than silence. “D’you reckon the Sun will do a feature on it?” Harry asks, playing along. The pair of them are no strangers to rumours – especially not while the other’s concerned. There must be about a thousand different articles based off of pictures of them together over the years – each as ludicrous as the next.

Well, except for the ones that weren’t.

“Oh _yeah_ ,” replies Louis confidently, with that raspy edge that oozes mischief, “Simon’ll go ballistic.”

This time Harry doesn’t have to fake anything, a husky laugh escaping his lips. Louis always had a way of making Harry smile just by the tone of his voice, the extra something behind those blue eyes. He’s not sure why he’s surprised to see that hasn’t changed.

However, just as quickly as Harry’s laugh subsides, so does the moment. They’ve had their little joke, a shining glimmer of something they used to have and now they’re back to silence. Back to reality. It’s as if they suddenly remembered who they are to each other – what that is exactly, Harry isn’t sure. He doesn’t understand how they can spend hours together every day, perform together every night and almost live out of each other’s pockets for months on end, and still wind up here: strangers.

# …

Harry doesn’t know how to be alone with Louis.

The whole thing is nauseating, if he’s being honest with himself. They’ve been in the air about four hours and aside from a bit of small talk, they’ve elapsed into a _very_ uncomfortable silence. Louis sits with his legs pulled into his body, his Adidas shoes digging into the very expensive looking leather seat covers. He’s on his phone, or he’s checking his bag, or he’s listening to music. Harry’s no different – putting his sunglasses back on and staring out at the endless clouds and the dotted cities below. Both busy themselves endlessly, turning their bodies away from each other, only looking up when the stewardess comes in with drinks and some standard issue plane snacks. Only twelve more hours to go. Wonderful.

He indulges his imagination for a moment, considering how a flight alone with Louis would have played out had this been a few years ago. The Harry of the old days wouldn’t have been able to picture anything better than hours alone with Louis. Those boys could have spent every waking minute together and not get bored. They’d have been playing games, teasing each other, laughing until Harry’s cheeks hurt and his stomach muscles ached. And maybe… just maybe, they’d be stealing one of those rare moments between them that had begun blossoming from the moment they moved in together. The kind of moments that had made Harry’s heart pound in his chest, his eyes locked onto Louis’, their cheeks flushed and their hands entwined in a way that could never be _just_ friendship.

But that was then, and this is now – and somehow everything is irreparably different. So different that the boys who had been best friends, utterly inseparable since the day they met – now couldn’t hold a conversation for longer than a couple of minutes.

It’s with this thought in mind that Harry pulls out his phone and connects to the complementary in-flight wifi and texts Niall. Somehow he feels the Irish boy will know exactly what to say to stop the churning anxiety in his stomach. He doesn’t even know how to explain in a quick message – only that someone messed up so badly that now Harry is alone with Louis on a sixteen hour flight to Los Angeles and that neither have spoken in several hours. He doesn’t want to mention the flood of melancholia he’s having or the ache in his chest whenever he chances a looks over at Louis, feeling further away from him than if they were on different continents.

Harry’s not even sure what time zone Niall is in – if he’s sleeping off jetlag or whether he’s out golfing or something equally predictable. But he’s lucky when his phone buzzes a few minutes later with Niall’s reply. 

> **This is tommo we’re talkin about right ? he’s ya mate !**

He has to stop himself from audibly sighing, keeping his mouth pursed and brows furrowed. Trust Niall to wave away Harry’s paranoia and pass it off as nothing – he doesn’t think he knows anyone as positive as that boy. Niall has never been the most perceptive bloke in the world, but he knows there’s always been something a little different between Harry and Louis. If the outside world could spend hours pulling apart every glance and every touch between them then the other members of the band would have to be blind not to see what had been there. Harry’s never liked talking about it – not then, not now. So Niall has always been left to pull at bits and pieces, base everything off of assumptions and guesses. But even with Niall’s limited understanding of the current predicament, _he has a point_ , Harry thinks, deep down. He can almost hear the Irish twang, the higher octave of the boy’s sunny disposition telling him _he’s your mate_ and he wishes he could be so optimistic about Louis.   

> **It’s not that simple, Niall.**

Harry frowns down at his own reply before he shoves his phone into his pocket just in time to meet the eyes of the stewardess who’s walking toward him with the food tray. It’s lunch or dinner somewhere in the world, he supposes, though the sky outside is a perpetual morning glow. All he can see is sun flickering through endless clouds, gaps of bright blue and dusty earth miles below. He half wishes it was dark so that he could just pretend to go to sleep and ignore the problem.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. Niall’s replied, but Harry’s choosing to ignore whatever sage advice is waiting in his inbox. Instead, he frowns at the menu the blonde has handed him, noticing with a glimpse through his lashes that Louis is doing the same. Everything is insanely decadent and Harry doesn’t have to be a pop star to know there’s a hefty price tag attached to even the smallest of canapés; but he _is_ a pop star, so the price is all included in his pop star package, of course. He’ll have to do another one of his God damn health cleanses when he gets home, though, he decides, after he orders the richest savoury breakfast on the menu.  

> **Harry !!! talk to the lad !**

Harry doesn’t even bother answering Niall’s text, dropping his phone down onto the seat next to him and looking out the window. It’s not long before the food is carted out, the cabin filling with a mouth-watering scent. Both Louis and Harry are forced, without words, to acknowledge each other’s presence as the stewardess attends to each of them. They make eye contact briefly, Harry having long ago put his sunglasses away in his bag, but it’s such a chaste connection that it barely counts. The plating is far too luxurious for plane food, though he’s experienced the extravagancy of private flights a million times over. It tastes just as good as it looks.

“S’rubbish innit?” remarks Louis after a few minutes of the pair eating in silence. Harry’s mid-mouthful and he looks over at his companion, the joke lost on him for almost a second. He catches on though, registering the playful twitch of a smile at Louis’ lips. _Funny._ He grins as best as he can with his mouth full of toast, nodding in agreement. The ghost of a smile turns into a real one upon Louis’ face at that and he dips his head down and away from Harry’s gaze. “What’d you get?”

Harry finishes chewing, swallows, and licks his lips.

“Eggs benedict.” He answers, wiping his mouth with the napkin and only then turning his head to face Louis.

Louis nods slowly in approval.

“Nice,” he affirms. Curiosity gets the better of him and Harry’s eyes fall to Louis’ plate. “Full English,” Louis explains in response. Harry thought his breakfast was heavy, until he takes a closer look at Louis’ and sees his plate piled high with sausages, bacon, hash browns, egg with what looks like a side of mushrooms and tomato. All he does is raise his eyebrows comically, nod a little and return his attention to his own meal, running his knife through the toast, the egg yolk oozing everywhere.

“ _Hey_ ,” exclaims Louis, noticing the subtly critical look on Harry’s face. “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.”

“I didn’t say anythin’.” Harry smirks a little, chewing silently.

Both eat in silence, though this time it doesn’t feel as uneasy as before. And when the empty plates are carted away and both boys decline any drinks, Harry feels this is the moment. If he doesn’t say anything now, they’ll elapse into an unbreakable quietude. He thinks of Niall’s text; _talk to him_. He thinks about it a lot. It’s just one plane trip, he thinks. If they can’t manage that, is there any way for things to ever be like they used to be? He doesn’t want to get off the plane at the other end knowing the last remnants of hope that anything can be normal between them again is left sixty thousand feet in the sky, evaporating into the thin air at the high altitude.

It seems Louis has the same thought – or maybe he hasn’t been thinking as deeply as Harry, maybe he doesn’t miss the closeness between them at all – but regardless, he goes to speak the moment Harry does. They look at each other, bemused, awkwardly cutting off whatever sentence they were going to say.

“You go,” Harry mumbles, a hesitant, awkward smile springing to his lips.

“Was just gonna say it’s a long flight, this, innit?” remarks Louis, and it’s painfully obvious in his words and in his expression that he, too, is desperately trying to make conversation happen. Harry recognises this because even after years of detached interactions, he still _knows Louis,_ deep down. Both of them have been on long flights before – longer than this one, even, so the comment is a little redundant. Yet Harry knows what he’s trying to do, or at least he hopes he does, and he wants it too.

“Yeah, s’pose.” responds Harry in a low rumble. He can see the conversation ending there, uncomfortably, unless he does what Niall tells him. He has to clear his throat before attempting to talk again. “D’you, err, wanna play Scrabble or somethin’?” he asks and he curses inwardly at the quickening of his heart beat. He knows how random his question is and he hopes Louis hasn’t registered the slight quiver in his words. “S’not much to do on planes, so I…”

“Yeah, alright. Sounds good.”

Harry feels his stomach leap at Louis’ quick agreement and he’s sure a look of surprise flickers across his face before it’s replaced with a pleasant smile. He doesn’t waste time before standing up and pulling down his carry-on suitcase, dropping it into the seat and unzipping it. The Scrabble box is sitting on top, and he slides it onto the table before putting his bag away again.

“Can’t believe you bring _Scrabble_ with you on tour,” Louis says as he walks over, fiddling with his hair before slouching into the seat opposite Harry, that smug closed-lip smile at his lips, “Of all things!”

Harry laughs breathily, sitting forward in his chair to take out the Scrabble board.

“D’you know how to play?” he asks, not meeting his companion’s eyes but putting a little too much concentration into setting up the game. He’s taken the tiles out of their satchel and poured them into the lid of the box, making sure none of the letters are face up.

Louis scoffs, shuffling a little in his seat so that he’s also leaning closer to the table.

“’Course,” he says confidently, as if the very doubt in Harry’s mind is insulting to him. Harry almost forgot how competitive Louis can be.

“’Kay,” Harry smirks, giving in before Louis’ even started whatever gloating he was going to do, “You can go first then.” He says it so posed, so polite, but if Louis remembers what it’s like to be teased by Harry then he should pick up on it now.

Harry thinks he does, because Louis raises his eyebrows a little, does that half smirk half, jaw roll.

“Give me a minute.” he replies in a bit of a whine, still in the process of picking up his seven tiles and lining them up.

Harry just smiles to himself, unsuccessfully hiding it behind his hand as he leans his elbow against his thigh. He waits for Louis to make his first move – ‘BARNS’, a solid first move that gains him eleven points off the bat. Maybe he does know how to play after all.

Louis knows he’s impressed Harry without even having to see the partially hidden surprise on the younger man’s face. He just sits back a little, folds his arms, and watches Harry frown at his own tiles. He mulls his options over for a lot longer than he needs to, hoping maybe something a little better will suddenly strike him. When inspiration runs dry, he spells out ‘NEST’, effectively awarding him five points.

Either Louis wants to humour Harry or he simply doesn’t want to jinx it – whatever it is he doesn’t gloat about his six point margin. He leans forward and analyses his tiles before making ‘SHARE’, using the ‘s’ from Harry’s ‘NEST’ – bumping him up to nineteen points. Harry lets out a disgruntled sigh, ignoring the smug look on Louis’ face. He’s sure the pair of them must look ridiculous – Louis, slouched and relaxed, smirking confidently while Harry sits forward, deep frown lines etched into his forehead, a look of serious concentration in his eyes.

Finally, he comes up with the goods – or at least whatever he can manage with his limited options. He tries to hide the childish grin, scrunching his nose slightly as he spells out ‘ROOT’.

The humour of it isn’t lost on Louis, who raises his his eyebrows and looks across at Harry with what can only be described as mock horror.

“Careful there, keep it PG.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Harry replies coolly, smirking softly and managing for the first time in several minutes to look Louis in the eye. It’s hard, he realises, _so hard_. Because once upon a time he could have spent hours just admiring Louis. Hours and hours. But he’s been trained and pushed to suppress every instinct for as long as he can remember. Having this moment with Louis, no matter how small or how insignificant it might be in the grand scheme of things, is overwhelming for him.

He clears his throat, willing himself not to blush or smile like an idiot at the beautifully sceptical look on Louis’ face.

“Stop trying to cause trouble and just take your turn, will you?” he demands, though it’s entirely light and playful. He’s very deliberately ignoring Louis’ sexual innuendo, looking out the window to stop his smile from spreading any wider across his face.

“Alright, alright.” murmurs Louis quietly, teasingly, his eyebrows raised as he picks up a tile. Harry watches as Louis puts down a ‘V’, an ‘I’, a ‘B’ and an ‘E’ – which connects to the end of ‘SHARE’. But it’s when Louis adds a ‘Y’ at the end that an incredulous laugh escapes Harry’s lips.

Louis looks up at him, perplexed.

“What?”

“S’not a word.” Harry says plainly, shrugging nonchalantly.

“What’d’you mean it’s not a word?” and the sincerely affronted tone in Louis’ voice makes Harry laugh again, unfolding his arms and leaning forward.

“Vibey.” He points unnecessarily at Louis’ word, “It’s not a word.”

Louis scoffs and Harry can see the determination written all over his face to prove Harry wrong.

“You’re kiddin’ me right?” he asks before spelling it out aloud, as if that’s debunking Harry’s statement at all. Harry shakes his head, bemused. “ _Vibey!_ I was at the club and the guys were vibey. There were _good vibes_ there. It’s a word.”

“S’not in the dictionary, Louis.” Harry says this in a kind of exhausted tone, already knowing that Louis won’t give up until he admits defeat.  

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve read the entire dictionary lately, have you?”

“ _No_ , but…” Harry begins, patiently suppressing the grin on his face. It’s just _so easy_ with Louis, even after everything. It makes Harry feel giddy and warm, but altogether adds to the sharpness that is reality – _can this continue once the flight is over_? And he looks at Louis, he sees him with his messy hair and his mischievous eyes and that determined competitive look and he knows even now he’ll let him have anything.

Harry lets out an exasperated sigh, rolls his eyes melodramatically and slumps in his chair.

“Go on then,  _fine_ ,” he says reluctantly, waving his hand in a vague gesture toward the Scrabble board, “Vibey’s a word.”

Louis laughs with a triumphant cackle, followed by a downright smug, closed-lip smirk.

Harry’s still grinning at Louis when his phone buzzes next to him, the screen lighting up. He grabs it quickly, hoping he doesn’t appear frantic – but he can’t risk Louis seeing whatever Niall has sent him. 

> **update ?!**

Harry can feel Louis’ eyes on him, that casual curiosity evident while he pretends he’s just waiting for Harry to take his turn. Harry tries to keep his face composed, not giving anything away. He can practically hear Niall’s demand through the phone – determined as he always is for some kind of truce to finally form between the boys. But there had never even been a war, not really, and Harry doesn’t know whether this game, this laughter, these _looks_ are enough.

Still, it’s something, isn’t it?

He doesn’t bother replying with words, but sneaks a photo of the Scrabble game and watches it land into Niall’s inbox. He tells himself the picture is just for Niall, but he can’t even lie to himself. He won’t wait for a reply, though, not wanting to take away from any quality time he’s having with Louis – even if the flight still has another ten and a half hours left.

# …

The game is over within the hour, Louis winning by a large margin and taking full advantage of his glory to gloat, while Harry folds his arms and tries not to think about how utterly _adorable_ it is. He mumbles something along the lines of _no need to rub it in_ , but Louis ignores it. Somehow they’ve broken the ice – whether it’s for good or not, it’s hard to say. It’s so easy with Louis, so easy to fall back into laughter and closeness. Still, it’s not enough to rewrite the past three years. Not by a long shot.

After they play Scrabble they lounge in their chairs, chatting about the tour and delicately avoiding the ‘Z’ word. Harry doesn’t think they’re ready for it – especially not with each other. Instead the keep the conversation clean, and talk of what they plan to do in the break between writing and recording. When the stewardess offers them a beverage, the both of them indulge in the classiest alcoholic drinks they can get on an aeroplane. But both seem to be hyper aware of each other’s presence and once their glasses are drained, they don’t ask for more. No way Harry’s going to get even remotely tipsy alone on a plane with Louis for the first time in years.

Somewhere along the way Harry’s showing Louis something on his phone, hoping a text from Niall won’t flash up on the screen. The last thing he needs is an incriminating message right where Louis can see it. Louis demands for Harry to _scoot over will you_ , prompting Harry to pull his bag off the seat beside him so that Louis doesn’t have to crane his neck to see the phone. So now they’re sitting side by side, heads close, staring at whatever video or article– it doesn’t matter, that’s not even the part Harry’ll remember in the days to come. Just that Louis is so _damn_ close to him.

They stay like that for a while – sitting beside one another; close but not quite touching, sharing jokes and looking through each other’s Twitter feeds. Louis makes some snide remarks about Harry’s cryptic lyric tweets to which Harry gives an offended, drawn out _hey._ It’s not until the pilot announces that they’re about to fly over Sweden are they aware of how much time has actually passed. The stewardess comes out not long after and shuts all the blinds on the windows. It’s still bright outside – they’re flying against the sundown; an everlasting brightness that once shut out, makes Harry realise just how tired he actually is. He could easily move to one of the recliners, pull out his headphones and have a well earned nap – but he doesn’t want to stop talking to Louis, even though his brain is starting to get a little fuzzy and his body feels heavier than normal.

By the looks of it, Louis is wide awake. Harry readjusts himself a little, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms while listening to whatever his companion is saying. He doesn’t notice that he’s falling asleep until he tunes back into Louis’ voice, trying desperately to focus on it against the waves of drowsiness.

“You can’t be tired already,” Louis states with a kind of judgement in his tone, looking over at Harry whose head is tilted against the cushioned seat, “The flight’s not even half way through, sleepy head.”

“M’not,” Harry mumbles back, eyes closed and no pretence of trying to appear alert, “Just resting my eyes.” He lies, and when he hears Louis cackle, he grins sleepily. He wonders if Louis is thinking about all those late nights when they lived together, in front of their Xboxes or watching some movie on TV, Harry fighting against sleep just for him. He wonders if Louis knows that’s exactly what he’s doing even now.

Louis makes another teasing remark, but Harry’s already so far gone that he doesn’t quite catch it. He won’t remember the moments right before he’s asleep, won’t know that his head slouches to his left, won’t know that Louis lets him sleep against his shoulder. What he _does_ remember is waking several hours later, the seat beside him empty – Louis slouched in his chair across the plane, headphones in and eyes shut – and suddenly they’re right back to being miles apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • [Lairport](http://www.sugarscape.com/lads/news/a1074829/harry-styles-louis-tomlinson-lax/) (though it happened earlier that year than in the timeline of the fic)  
> • [Vibey Scrabble](https://www.instagram.com/p/3HxETRjCfg/?hl=en) (speculated to have been played with Louis)
> 
> (and if you wanna reach out I can be found at [harryrainbows](harryrainbows.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!)


	2. Right Now

_‘Right now, I wish you were here with me. Cos right now, everything is new to me. You know I can’t fight the feeling, and every night I feel it. Right now, I wish you were here with me.’_

 

It’s been exactly forty-eight hours and twelve minutes since Louis left LAX, parting ways with Harry in mumbled awkward goodbyes and camera flashes in their faces. It’s been exactly forty-eight hours and twelve minutes, and Louis is _still_ thinking about it. He keeps jumping back and forth between the start of the flight, the end and everything in between. He can’t get over it – that something as daunting as a sixteen hour flight alone with Harry could turn into something straight out of the old days.

He’d almost given up hope. He’d spent so much of the latest tour trying, in his own subtle (nearly undetectable) way to show Harry just how badly he wants to fix things. Stealing glances across the stage during _Little Things_ , fetching Harry a new water bottle, or throwing existing ones off to the side so he won’t trip on them. Hell, he even risked taking over the start of Harry’s solo when he saw he couldn’t manage it after having to do Zayn’s in his absence. He’d tried, _truly_ , but it had all seemed in vain. Maybe it wasn’t after all.

The moment that he keeps pressing replay on, though, happened while Harry was fast asleep. Louis didn’t expect to wind up sitting just inches from Harry, didn’t expect it to make his heart race either. He thinks it’s got something to do with the lack of intimacy the past – well, if he’s honest – several years. Sure, they’ve hugged for the fans on stage or fist bumped over a witty inside joke, none of it was like it was. Like it used to be. There had been no physical boundaries between them. Now? Now, it’s as if a fence has been built between them, electric and frightening. With every inch closer he gets, he is another inch closer to being burned, skin singed with longing and regret.

It had happened anyway.

Harry had fallen asleep, slowly but surely leaning his head into the crook of Louis’ neck. Louis’ first instinct had been to wake Harry, but the boy was magnetised to him, and he couldn’t ignore the warmth that soaked into his skin at the contact. So he’d done the shameful thing, the selfish thing; he’d let that boy sleep on him, getting numb from the stiff position, not wanting to move for fear of Harry readjusting away from him. He’d listened to Harry’s deep breathing and the mumbling – incoherent but comforting somehow; comforting to know that the Harry that Louis used to share a bed with, the Harry who’d snuggle under the covers in the early hours just to be close to Louis, still talks in his sleep. Maybe some things don’t change.

He’s at home, lounging about with pretty much nothing to do. The break has just started and he’s already bored. They don’t start writing the next album for at least another two weeks and Louis knows until then that he’ll be doing fuck-all. Returning home after tour is always like this. From the exhilarating highs of concert after concert, a new city and new people every night – to the tumultuous low, sleep ins and lazy days and skipping showers. It’s always a harsh contrast. He guesses that’s why he likes clubbing so much – he’s just never been equipped to live the life of a homebody. He’s too goddamn restless for that, even if it’s only for a couple months out of the year.

But he isn’t up for a night out, paps in his face and girls on his arm. He’d rather stay on the couch watching re-runs of shitty reality TV and mocking the contestants aloud, no matter how sad and lonely that image might seem. So he pretty much does that for the next few days – and it’s nice at first. He likes the down time, after everything. Even Louis can admit things are different this time around with the break, and it’s no coincidence that he avoids social media for the better part of the week. He doesn’t want to see his mentions blowing up, doesn’t want to see the enthusiastic texts from Niall or Liam about hanging out. Most of all, though, he doesn’t want the confirmation of absolutely no contact from Zayn Malik since he packed his bags and got the first flight out of Japan just two weeks ago. Because as long as he’s not checking his messages, he can almost pretend that everything’s fine with Zayn.

_Damn it_. He’d been doing such a good job at not thinking about him.

After Louis inevitably does check his messages, (the train of thought unshakable even during a particularly hilarious episode of _Jersey Shore_ ) his doubts are confirmed. He clicks the message feed shared between him and Zayn (contact labelled ‘ZAP!’ with a little monkey emoji); the last one was sent almost a month ago, about something stupid and irrelevant. It makes his heart ache a little, followed by a burning anger. _Fuck this._

Louis supposes _he_ could text him. After all, they’d managed to part somewhat amicably – they were still friends, right? The lads understood it was never Zayn’s deal really, the whole boy band shtick. He’d been sulking for months and hinting for even longer. It wasn’t a surprise, especially not to Louis – who’d shared plenty of things with Zayn during many a marijuana induced haze, some things he wished now he could retract. There’d been many mumbled confessions on Zayn’s part too, his fears about the future, about his career – always spoken in a restrained vulnerability, at the peak of their high between silences and sounds. Zayn had been there for Louis in the absence of something – a very curly haired boy shaped hole in Louis’ heart.

Now the gaping hole is bigger and Louis is reminded of just how alone he really is.

It was never a surprise. But that doesn’t stop it from hurting like hell. It certainly didn’t stop Louis from lashing out, either. He’s never been one to bite his tongue, never one to know when he’s gone too far – or, simply, he never cared when he did. The day Zayn finally told them it was official – that he’d signed the papers and was leaving that evening and never looking back? Louis hadn’t taken it well. Zayn hadn’t even had the fucking guts to say it to the band’s face; instead seeking a third party to break the news. It’d taken a full hour of frantic phone calls, texts and even an angry fist thumping against his hotel room door before Zayn agreed to sit before his four ex-band mates and grant them the courtesy of an explanation. Even then, the man of few words had little to offer up; something about just being _tired,_ about wanting to be a normal 22-year-old. The worst part was how much Louis understood. He didn’t want to sympathise, didn’t want to admit that Zayn had every right to leave; because even with the best excuse in the world, _he still fucking left them_. That betrayal is something Louis won’t ever forget.

So he can’t just text him now; it’s a mixture of pride and shame and something else that stops him. _They’re still friends, right?_ He sighs heavily and throws his phone into the soft of the couch, returning his attention to the TV.

Barely seconds have passed, though, before Louis’ phone is buzzing and, Zayn still begrudgingly on his mind, it’s with surprise that he registers the recipient. It’s an unknown number, but he knows immediately who it is. His stomach does an uncomfortable jolt.

> **Hello Louis, it’s Harry Styles here. Saw this and thought of what you said the other day. Maybe you’ll have a laugh over it. Cheers, H.**

Beneath the text is a link and Louis wastes no time tapping it. It opens onto an article plastered with tabloid images of himself and Harry stepping off the plane and walking through LAX together. The headline reads: [‘One Direction’s Harry Styles gets cozy with fellow band-mate Louis Tomlinson arriving at LAX’](https://66.media.tumblr.com/bf2767884ddeeb3c92afcf9853273ada/tumblr_od2knymfCK1rm8lqro3_r1_1280.png). His gut reaction is to laugh – albeit a cold, bitter kind. He can’t count how many articles have been written about him and Harry over the years, for far more ‘incriminating’ things than a simple plane ride. He remembers when they first found a headline about them that really caught their eyes – one about ‘Larry Stylinson’ – sitting on the couch one afternoon, laughing about the ridiculousness of it all. Back then there was nothing but speculation about the boys’ friendship, from analysing intimate hugs to flat out gossip column lies. But there hasn’t been anything like it for years; not really... not since they grew apart. 

> _Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson shared smiles and laughter on the back of One Direction’s most recent scandal, Zayn Malik’s departure from the band in March. Despite reports of tension in the band, Harry and Louis happily greeted fans who waited outside their terminal. Styles was even spotted fondly attending to his band mate’s needs by helping him carry his belongings through the gates._
> 
> _Fans have flocked to social media outlets to express all kinds of reactions to what many are labelling “Lairport” (a mesh of the boys’ online ship name ‘Larry Stylinson’ and the word Airport). Fans are quick to point out the trip’s significance - an ending to a long dry spell between Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, whom have not been spotted together outside of work duties for some time. Many fans are ecstatic - convinced this seemingly small gesture is yet another piece of evidence that Harry and Louis are in a secret romantic relationship. While others believe it is “just a plane trip”._
> 
> _Regardless of mounting speculation about the nature of Harry and Louis’ friendship, these pictures confirm - there is clearly no feud between the pair._

Once Louis finishes reading the article, he’s a bundle of nerves and he doesn’t quite know why. He hasn’t voluntarily read a gossip article about him in a long time, least of all about his interactions with Harry. He’d learnt long ago it was just best to avoid them all together. Reading a description of their time spent together makes him feel a new kind of ill, like he’s excited and afraid all at once; excited, because there’s something weirdly validating about a stranger highlighting the obvious shift in their relationship in the public, no matter how subtle; and afraid, because he’s only ever known disappointment when it comes to Harry.

He wishes, for the first time in a long time, that the fans were right – that this was the rain after an exhausting drought. But Louis isn’t so sure; he and Harry haven’t been good for a long time, and it doesn’t matter how much the public speculate – things won’t change.

Harry had gone to the effort to show it to him, though.

_That has to be something, right?_

It takes him another several agonising minutes to figure out what to type back, though he’d never admit it. He’s smirking down at Harry’s formality – half baffled, half amused. _Harry Styles here._ As if Louis knew any other Harry, as if the name wasn’t completely drenched with memories of the curly haired boy. If he didn’t know Harry so well, the formality of the message might hurt. But even after not texting each other in years, Louis just wants to smile. Finally, he texts back.

> **Haha ! Told you. Should have bet money on it ! How did you get my number though ?**

He realises a moment too late the possible hostility that could be read in those words, but knows he can hardly take it back. It’s what makes waiting for Harry’s reply all the more excruciating – though again, he’d _never_ admit it. Chewing his nails (a habit he’s been trying to break), he vacantly watches his television in anticipation. He’s pretending to pay attention, but keeping up the pretence to only himself gets old pretty quickly; and at any rate, his phone buzzes not long after.

> **God knows you need the extra couple of bucks.**

Louis laughs at that, before the second message comes through.

> **Niall gave me it. Hope that’s okay?**

Through pursed lips Louis contemplates the last message. There’s something oddly endearing about it and heartbreaking at the same time. Harry took time out of his day to seek Louis out, to contact him despite the strange animosity between them and all because of one little joke Louis made days ago. Harry remembered it. And it should be awkward and uncomfortable – the way Harry asks permission to text him, as if Louis would ever be anything but eager to do so. And it is in a way, but Louis can’t get passed the unadulterated sincerity of this confession. He wants _so desperately_ , as he did on the plane back to L.A. – as he has done for far too long – for things to _not_ be awkward.

He waits a heartbeat before throwing caution to the wind.

> **Course its ok**

There’s a second he almost regrets it, thinks this has stalled the conversation completely. Harry had been a lot faster at replying to the last message than this one, Louis thinks. He doesn’t realise the extent of how badly he’s missed this kind of communication with Harry until he’s afraid he’s lost his chance to get it back.

Louis re-reads the conversation a moment longer before typing out another message.

> **don’t mock my financial situation Harry or I’ll have to block your number !! being on the dole is hard**

This time he doesn’t have to wait long, watches the ‘…’ bubble float beside Harry’s name knowing that somewhere across the city he’s typing out a reply.

> **It’s the hard knock life, for you.**

Cracking a smile and shaking his head a little, Louis knows he’s salvaged it.

# …

This is not how Louis expected to be spending his evening – Chinese takeaway in hand, the TV lighting up the room, eyes glued to his phone. But nonetheless, here he is – with a mouth full of noodles, curled up on the couch, and a buzz in his fingers as yet another message from Harry comes through. The afternoon has faded into night, Louis abandoning his phone only to order take away in between texts. Harry has never been the best person to make conversation with via text – his formality and short replies jolting any flow of dialogue within minutes. Even back in 2012, when things hadn’t totally gone awry with them yet, Louis avoided texting Harry whenever possible, preferring, if anything, to just embarrass his best friend by publishing it online for the world to see. Texting had mostly been just for emergencies or reminders, like when they used to live together and Harry would text him that tea was ready downstairs. The only time that really changed was when Harry moved out and their social media interactions were heavily monitored (as Louis suspects they would be now, if there was anything to monitor); but even _that_ was a lifetime ago. This is so, _so_ different this time around.

It isn’t a fully fledged conversation and it certainty isn’t devoid of awkward parts; slow replies and everything else that comes with texting a stranger. But Harry’s not a stranger and somehow even with all of that, the texts go on well into the night. So it’s not until about seven does Harry offer up an excuse to stop replying – something about going out with friends for dinner. He’s run out of things to talk about, Louis assumes. Harry is too polite to let him down any other way but kindly. Louis’ half disgruntled it’s over, half amazed their interaction lasted so long in the first place.

Despite this, he says his goodbyes, his eyes lingering down at the text feed a moment. He realises he hasn’t even added Harry’s number back into his contacts and hurries to do so. Yet the second he does, is the second his stomach lurches, over the most _stupid_ , embarrassing thing, too.

He doesn’t know what to name Harry’s contact as. It shouldn’t be a big deal, it really shouldn’t. _And it isn’t! No way._

His thumb lingers over the keyboard.

He’s got Harry’s number again. They’ve texted. It was good, it really was. They aren’t there yet. Not _there_ – not at that point where Harry becomes Harold, Hazza, or even H.

He’s being stupid, thinking about this so much.He types ‘Harry’, clicks save, and locks his phone with a heavy sigh.

# …

Almost a week passes and not a single text comes in from Harry Styles.

Louis isn’t exactly surprised – he’s not naïve enough to think one conversation via text could solve all their problems, could breach the distance that had accumulated over the last two and a half years and place them right back into the thick of their intense bond. He’s far too stubborn to try and reach out himself too; because, well… so maybe he doesn’t have a good excuse, but he’s sticking to it anyway.

It’s half past ten and Louis is preparing to settle down for yet another night of TV binging and late take away dinner. He’s really getting into a routine.

He’s got his mouth full of pizza when his phone rings. Startled, Louis drops the remaining slice into the box, hesitates – thinks: _bugger it_ , and wipes his jeans down with grease before answering the call.

“‘Ello?” he greets, silently chewing the remainder of his mouthful.

“ _Mate!”_ the voice is high and unmistakably that of one of his best mates from high school. “Mate,” he repeats with less of a slur and only slightly quieter than the initial outburst.

“Oli?” replies Louis with slight bemusement. Judging from the background noise, Oli isn’t alone. Louis knew he would be in L.A. with a few of his friends – though Louis has done a good job of avoiding them thus far. Oli was calling it a gap year of sorts, ‘an undeserved one’ he’d chortle self deprecatingly (he wasn’t studying, Louis wondered who on earth needed a gap year from working in computer sales) and had decided America was the place to be. Or rather, Vegas and being closer to his incredibly rich and famous school friend was the place to be. Louis had quickly figured out how to bite his tongue on that one though. The band’s tour dates had made it much easier for Louis to avoid Oli and the lads staying at his L.A. rental (he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them to not trash the place in his absence), and with Zayn’s departure Oli had actually been decent for once and backed off on all the demands of taking him out to meet other celebrities.

That didn’t mean a drunken call like this wasn’t to be expected though.

“Mate you’ve _got to_ come out with us tonight. This place is absolutely buzzin’, there’s girls with _legs_ up to ‘ere!”

“Oli, mate – slow down. Where are ya?” asks Louis. _Trust Oli to be already pissed at a club at ten thirty on a Sunday night._

“The…” there’s a silence, some commotion – Oli’s asking someone else on his end, “Project Los Angeles!” he confirms after a few seconds. “Mate, don’t be a pussy. Stop mopin’ around and come _party!_ ” he yells the last part and Louis has to jerk the phone away from his ear. He can still hear his other mates whooping in agreement in the background.

“What are you talkin’ about? I’m not mopin’ around!” exclaims Louis defensively, feeling an unexplainable sense of panic. He knows Oli is drunk, but wonders how he could possibly have guessed so accurately. How does he know Louis’ spent the better half of the week nostalgic for the old days? How could he know he’s been dreaming of when the band wasn’t a mess, when Zayn still enjoyed it all, when he and Harry were–  well, how’d Oli _know_?

“I know you’re gutted about Eleanor and everythin’ but I promise you, the girls here will change that.”

_Oh._ Eleanor. _Right_.

Amidst everything that’s been happening the past month, Louis had almost forgotten the way her name made his stomach clench. In the time since the official split in March, he’s felt nothing but relief where his public love life is concerned. One less thing to deal with, on top of Zayn.

Louis snorts at Oli’s drunken attempt at sympathy, wondering how he managed to fool even his best friend into thinking he ever loved Eleanor. He couldn’t even convince himself for longer than a blink of an eye. In the beginning he really tried, though, ardently even. He held her hand and kissed her and did everything a boyfriend is supposed to. But even that had aligned with Harry – everything always led to Harry.

_Eleanor._ Oli’s words make Louis cringe for more reasons than one. Because of course Oli doesn’t know how things had been with Louis and her in the end. Here Oli is thinking Louis was spending his down time sulking over his ex-girlfriend when really he’s been thinking about _Harry_. God, if only Oli knew.

“C’mon Louis,” urges Oli in a drunken whine, interrupting Louis’ thought process, “Get outta your pyjamas and come downtown. I’ll even shout you a round, ‘cos I’m a top guy.”

Honestly, the lads mightn’t be good for a lot of things but they sure are good for a night out. And with the reminder of all things Eleanor brought to the forefront of his mind so helpfully by Oli, Louis quite likes the idea of drinking his troubles away, at least for the evening. It’s not so much Eleanor herself that makes the idea of drinking until he can’t stand such a tempting offer; but rather, everything she had represented. She just wasn’t the girl he could ever love – no girl could be, he’d realised. They’d been friends behind closed doors a lot longer than they’d ever been together. By the time it’d come to put them to bed publicly, the pair of them were just… sick of it. Sick of lying. After all, Eleanor’d had her own life and she couldn’t be herself to the fullest while she was tied to Louis. He’d known what she meant deep down – that she wanted to find someone who could really love her – and he hardly blamed her. So although as far as Oli knew, Louis had been on the market since March… well, Louis had never truly been on the market.

Not since 2010.

Louis hasn’t left his place in a week and he’s pretty sure there’ll be an indent in the couch from where his bum sits. So with a roll of his eyes and a breathy laugh, Louis reluctantly agrees. Maybe clubbing will help get his mind off of everything.

It doesn’t take long for Louis to get ready. He showers, picks out his favourite Vans t-shirt and black skinny jeans, messes about with his barely dry hair and calls his driver. The club isn’t too far from his place; he’s been there before and knows his way around well enough to get him inside without too much hassle from the bouncers. He’s no regular (he kind of hates exclusive clubs anyway) but he _is_ Louis Tomlinson and somehow that still has perks even at 11:15pm on a Sunday in downtown L.A.

“Oi, _oi!”_ hoots Oli as he spots Louis amongst the crowd of dancing, sweaty people. Oli is lounging in one of the booths with four other men and two girls. All of them are piss drunk, by the looks of it. “If it isn’t the pop star himself,” he teases, pulling Louis over with a pat on the back, “ _Lewis_.” He drawls, hissing the ‘is’ and cackling at his own joke. It seems no matter how much time passes, Louis’ school friends won’t ever forget that he used to like being called Lewis.

“Alright lads, all the usual suspects, I see,” remarks Louis conversationally, having shed some of his reluctance and moodiness on the trip over. There’s a few faces he doesn’t recognise, but he figures by the night’s end it’ll hardly matter. Oli points out the girls, who bat their eyelashes and swish their long blonde hair in Louis’ direction. Oli wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and gestures for Louis to sit next to them. Somehow, through all of that and the noise of the club, he doesn’t quite catch their names.

Louis doesn’t want to be the only sober one in a group of eight. He doesn’t want to be the only sober one when Oli keeps hollering in his ear about how much better off Louis is without Eleanor, or asking completely invasive questions about Zayn ditching the band. He doesn’t want to be the only sober one when he checks his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes to find he still has no message from Harry Styles.

He really, _really_ doesn’t want to be sober. So Louis takes Oli up on that offer for a round on the house and before long, he’s almost completely caught up with the rest of the people in the club.

That is to say, he’s fucking pissed.

Time moves strangely after that. One minute he’s taking another shot, the next he’s grinning into a flash for a girl who won’t stop telling Louis Tomlinson that she met Louis Tomlinson. He’s dancing too (or rather, jumping up and down and waving his hands around) – along with Oli and Cal out in the midst of grinding bodies.

Then he’s sitting in the booth, chatting absolute crap with one of Oli’s new American friends while one of the blonde girls sits on his lap. He’s so drunk he doesn’t even mind her there, hopes absentmindedly that she won’t assume she’s coming back to his place afterward, though. The other one – her friend, Louis assumes – is grinding against Oli out on the dance floor. He wonders why they don’t just make out already – they’re teasing around the subject for at least half an hour.

Somehow, Louis finds himself alone in the booth with the girl still all over him. Ignoring her advances was easy when he was talking animatedly with the American guy about football. Now, though, he’s quick to pull out his phone and pretend to be looking at something important. He realises there’s still no text from Harry, though it’s past midnight so there was really no hope left there. There’s one from Liam and a few snapchats, but he’s too far gone to really concentrate on any of them.

The girl in his lap is polite enough not to look over at his phone, though her hair keeps falling into his line of vision. For someone who’s all over him – literally – she’s pretty shy, not making a lot of conversation and hiding her head in the crook of his neck. It tickles a bit, but Louis is mostly unfazed.

He’s scrolling through Instagram when he decides to search Harry, to see what he’s been up to. They don’t follow each other’s accounts and it’s been a while since he’s seen what Harry has up there.

The whole thing is kind of petty and stupid. Not following each other started off as a joke between them, and a jab at management for how seriously they were taking the whole ‘Larry Stylinson’ thing; but eventually the distance between himself and Harry was big enough that following him now would be awkward and weird. So sometimes if Louis is feeling really down he just searches it, scrolls through the black and white feed like a ghost, and leaves no trace he’s ever been there at all.

A jolting squirm in his stomach is the first thing he feels when he clicks on Harry’s Instagram. Harry hasn’t updated much since he last checked, but the latest picture is new to him. Its colour catches his eye in the stream of black and white.

** **

> **_First recorded attempt at ‘Vibey’ in scrabble._ **

The moment he registers the image – recognises the scrabble game to be the one he played with Harry on the plane – is the moment his whole body reacts, albeit drunkenly. The girl on his lap almost falls off him with the force of Louis’ jerk, but manages to stay put by gripping tight to his shoulders. She’s staring at him and then down at his phone, completely unaware of what Louis is freaking out about.

“He posted it!” Louis exclaims in a high pitched surprise.

Harry took a photo of their scrabble game.  _And he fucking posted it_. It’s dated three days ago – smart, considering fans would be quick to connect it to Louis if he’d posted it straight away (thanks to the paparazzi photos of them at airport). It also means, Louis manages to think in his hazed state, that Harry thought about the picture well after it was taken, and concluded that it was special enough to share.

_Shit._

It should not be that big of a deal, but Louis is so fucking drunk and he misses his best friend and up until that moment he was sure Harry didn’t care–

“ _Who?_ ” yells the girl over the thudding bass of the music.

“ _Harry!_ ” he answers before his brain can filter his words, as if it’s obvious, as if it could be anybody else. He’s so used to having to restrain himself - in fact, by now, he’s so used to not even having a reason to talk about Harry _let alone_ the go ahead from management. He doesn’t even care, though, because Harry posted the damn photo.

He doesn’t take his eyes off his phone, but he can feel the girl’s indignant glare.

“What?” she asks in slurred confusion, her arms still tight around him.

Louis looks at her properly for the first time since she sat with him. She’s looking back at him expectantly with glassy yet sparkling blue eyes. But all Louis can think is that Harry’s green ones are better. Louis should really tell him.

The instant he thinks it, he’s leaping from his seat and knocking over the girl, who squeals at the sudden movement.

“Sorry!” he exclaims, hands frantic yet distractedly hovering over her as if checking if she’s okay, “Sorry, err …” he trails off. He still doesn’t know her damn name.

“Briana.” She offers, disappointment lacing her tone.

“Briana, right,” He’s standing up from the booth, the girl staring up at him half aghast, half perplexed, “Sorry, love, I gotta– I really gotta make a call.”

Before she can respond, Louis’ turned his back on her and is heading into the dense crowd. On his way he spots Oli plastered all over the other blonde – _finally_ , Louis thinks.

Impatient, Louis’ already got his phone out and is searching for Harry’s contact before he’s even found an exit out onto the balcony. When he reaches it the phone is ringing at his ear. The door shuts behind him, cutting off the thudding music and yelling masses. Ideally, he’d have total seclusion for this, but he’s too drunk to really register the few people scattered around, smoking and chatting in huddles. They’re too absorbed in their conversations, anyway.

The phone rings a little longer than Louis has the patience for – tapping his feet anxiously and staring down at the street below. The only thing running in his head is how much he needs to tell Harry that he loves his eyes, because they’re so green and so beautiful and how much he loves playing Scrabble with him and that he misses him and–

“Hello?” Harry’s voice is groggy and disorientated and it’s only at the sound does Louis realise he must have woken him up. What fucking time is it? Two o’clock? Three? _Jesus._

“Harry!” croaks Louis, his voice strained from having had to talk over the loud music all night.

“Lou?” Harry questions, the softness in his deep voice soothing to Louis’ ears. _God_ it’s embarrassing how badly he’s missed that sleepy voice, “What time is it?”

“I dunno – but listen, _Harry_ ,” he slurs adamantly, frowning at nothing as he tries to recollect his thoughts. He’s struck with panic – panic of what he’s trying to convey, panic that he’ll say something he regrets. His mind is a mess of intoxication and nostalgia. “Harry – you there?”

“M’here, Lou, where are you? Are you at a club?”

“Err… Project whatsit… Project LA!  Harry, you’ve _got_ to come.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks in a calm tone; Louis can barely hear the mild paranoia in Harry’s question, but it’s definitely there.

“What? _Yeah!_ S’great. Everythin’s fine, just…” he stops talking suddenly, feeling his heart thudding in his temple and in his chest. _What the hell is he doing?_ “Just… wanted to say hi.” He closes his eyes, cringing at his own idiocy. Even in his drunken state he knows he’s embarrassed himself, wonders what Harry must think of him.

“Hi,” Harry replies in a baffled kind of laugh, an endeared kind of laugh. Louis can’t imagine for the life of him how anything about himself right now could be endearing. There’s a short silence and all Louis can hear is the faint, laboured, sleep-heavy breathing of the boy on the other end of the line. “Is that all?” Louis is thankful that Harry doesn’t say it in a rude way; there’s no trace of annoyance. You wouldn’t even know Louis had woken him up in the first place if it weren’t for his distinct morning voice. Instead, (but maybe Louis is completely imagining it) there’s a kind of vulnerability, an expectant air.

“Yeah– _no_!” Louis stutters drunkenly. Trust him to be unable to piece together his thoughts when it counts the most. “No, err, can we talk a bit, Harry?” he doesn’t even try to hide the desperation in his voice.

“Of course. Let me just get out of bed.”

Louis can’t even respond to that, at least not coherently. He can feel the unwanted butterflies stirring in his stomach; blames it on the buzz of the alcohol because it’s easier than accepting that Harry has brought it on.

He waits, listening to the shuffling of sheets and the indecipherable noises before Harry returns to the phone. The kettle is boiling in the background, and it feels almost like if Louis just closed his eyes he would be right there with Harry.

“M’back.”

“Hi.”

A breathy laugh, and then with concealed amusement, “Hi.”

“What are you doin’?” asks Louis sheepishly, leaning against the railing and fiddling with his fringe.

“Just making some tea.” And Louis hates that he can fucking hear the smile in Harry’s voice – _how the hell can someone hear a damn smile?_

“Hmm…” muses Louis softly. “I could really go for a cuppa right now, me head’s spinnin’.”

Harry’s laugh echoes through the phone. “They don’t offer that at Project L.A.?” he asks playfully.

“It’s a fucking disgrace,” Louis quips, though he’s grinning wide. Another lingering silence and Louis lets his imagination run away with him, images of Harry in a kitchen making tea somewhere across L.A. flitting through his mind, “Hey, Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“D’you still dunk your biscuits so they’re all soggy in ya tea?” he didn’t mean for there to be a sadness in the question, but he’s sure it’s there anyway. It's vulnerable and Louis hopes to god he won’t remember it in the morning.

“Yeah,” replies Harry after a heart beat. He’s quiet, and then, “D’you still refuse to put sugar in yours?”

“ _Hey_ ,” answers Louis, gripping the railing and swinging back on his heels, feeling weirdly giddy – but it must just be the alcohol. He hears Harry’s gulp as he drinks. “Tea with no sugar is the _only_ way!”

Harry laughs again, all husky and kind of nasal but Louis thinks it’s the nicest laugh he’s ever heard. _Fuck I’m so drunk_.

Both of them go quiet a moment, and Louis can hear the distant sound of muffled music from within the club, the quiet conversation being had in the corner, and the wind circling around him gently. It’s kind of cold, but Louis can’t really feel it, the liquor warming him from the inside out.

“Lou, are you going to be okay getting home on your own?” Harry asks suddenly, imploringly.

Louis’ breath hitches in his throat at the concern and his mind is swimming with _I miss you I miss you I miss you_. “Yeah; yeah, of course.” He promises a little too confidently.

“Good… um,” Harry yawns and clears his throat, “I should probably go back to bed, Louis. It’s late.”

“Oh,” breathes Louis, the sound evaporating into the air. Harry’s words sober him a little. “Yeah,” he adds, poorly concealing the disappointment he feels. If he had it his way, they’d be talking until sunrise. If it were _2012_ , they’d be talking well into the morning; lying close, feeling each other’s breaths on their skin. Louis should have appreciated those moments so much more at the time. If he’d only known it wouldn’t last… But there’s no use thinking about _if’s_ and _but’s_. Louis knows this well. “ _Yeah_. Right. Obviously.”

“Is that alright?” asks Harry with the most compassionate, soothing tone. Louis thinks he could melt right there.  _Fuck._ What the hell was in his drink, anyway?

“ _Harry_ ,” He wishes the boy could see him rolling his eyes from over the phone, “Don’t be stupid. Go to bed.”

“Okay. Thanks, err… for the call.” Harry says after a moment, uncertainty still etched in his tone. It’s as if he doesn’t want to leave, as if he’s aware of how rare and special this phone call is.

As if he knows Louis wouldn’t be caught dead doing it again, if he could help it.

“Goodnight.” Harry finally says. It’s soft, and Louis’ heart clenches.

“Thanks for picking up,” he answers, “Goodnight.”

The phone line goes dead. Louis breathes in deep, the cold night air stinging his nose. He leans against the railing and stares out at the skyline.

His head is throbbing and he feels heavy and feather light all at once. He can’t figure out whether he dreamed the conversation with Harry or not, except that Harry’s laugh is ingrained into his mind and he doesn’t want to ever forget it. He knows, however, that although time stood still for a while there; just him and Harry and the moon – he has to go back downstairs to those sweaty strangers, and to music that’s so loud he can’t even think.

He has to return to reality. The thought leaves him stone cold sober.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • [Louis being called Lewis in High School](https://lewistomlinson.tumblr.com/post/145761605501/int-did-you-have-any-nicknames-growing-up)  
> • Briana Jungwirth existing (do I really need to link sources here? we don’t need reminders)  
> •[ Ashley/Oli](http://66.media.tumblr.com/2ecabeb84e0597b4847e0ca04bbf04d4/tumblr_o681a0olFu1qznzreo3_1280.jpg) (Yes, she's the 'friend' Louis mentions. Lmao...)  
> • [The Instagram post](https://www.instagram.com/p/3HxETRjCfg/?taken-by=harrystyles) (or 'edit' but it's just a screenshot because it did happen, I linked this last chapter but have it again)  
> • Louis and Briana first meeting at Project LA (again, do we really crave the sweet embrace of death that much to click a source link for this? Don't worry, I guarantee neither her nor Trashley will ever make an appearance again)  
> • [Louis' tea preferences](https://twitter.com/louis_tomlinson/status/102283757020659712)  
> • As for the online article, that's just a quick Photoshop edit done by yours truly. The manip used in the article is by [fxckingunicorn](http://fxckingunicorn.tumblr.com/post/137754701000) on Tumblr, who gave me permission to use it.


	3. A.M.

_'Won’t you stay til’ the A.M? All my favourite conversations always made in the A.M. Feels like this could be forever tonight, break these clocks forget about time.’_

Harry sleeps through his alarm. He wishes he could say it was for the first time, but he’s never been very good at lying. The only difference about sleeping in this morning (compared to every other morning the past two weeks) is that he actually has somewhere important to be: the studio. Writing for the fifth album starts today.

He checks the clock on his bedside table – he’s only slept in about twenty minutes and if he moves a little faster (though that’s unlikely to happen), he won’t be late. With a sluggish sigh, Harry drags himself out of bed, thinking next time he’ll make sure the guys meet after lunch instead.

Harry has never been the type to get nervous easily. He remembers how he felt before his first audition all those years ago; how the buzz of adrenaline inspired a performance that got him to where he is today. He remembers how he feels before he goes on stage every night on tour, that same electricity in his veins, only amplified to an indescribable degree. But even after stepping out to a sea of expectant eyes on him, Harry knows he was never really nervous.

This – _today_ – makes him nervous.

Harry’s only a few minutes late, and he runs into Niall in the elevator on the way up.

“Mornin’” Niall greets him.

“Long time, no see.” Harry replies slowly, still stuck in the morning daze.

“You ready?” Niall heaves a jittery breath.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Niall cackles, eliciting a small smirk from Harry despite his worries just as the elevator door slides open. The pair of them discover only Liam has arrived on time and he’s only mildly disgruntled when he sees them. By the time Louis arrives (not looking the slightest bit sorry for holding the rest of the boys up), it’s forty minutes since the original meeting time.

Harry catches Louis’ eyes as he walks in but quickly averts them, hoping to God he doesn’t look suspicious doing it. It’s not as if things are tense between them; at least, not like they used to be. There’s a reason Liam and Louis usually team together for most of the writing while Harry goes off to collaborate with other people. Harry’s just not good at hiding how he’s feeling when the cameras aren’t rolling, not good at shutting off his heartache when he’s meant to be pouring his heart into new lyrics. He writes from experience, after all. So how can he sit with Louis and bare his soul to him? He just can’t.

But things are different this time around, Harry knows. This time he’s simply avoiding Louis with attentive caution, gauging the other boy’s reaction before he follows suit. Because what feels natural _now_ – ever since the flight – is to be much warmer to Louis, to make him laugh, to ask him how his week has been. They’ve been interacting privately more in the past two weeks than they had collectively in the last year and a half put together.

… And then Louis had drunkenly dialled Harry at three in the morning to ‘just say hi’. Honestly, Harry doesn’t know what to make of that. The morning after it had happened, Harry was sure it was some weird dream brought on by a surge of nostalgia or something equally embarrassing. But his call history told a different story. The phone conversation only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it’s changed everything somehow. And with no contact from Louis since then, Harry is fairly sure Louis blacked out the entire night. He certainly sounded drunk enough to forget he ever called, let alone why or what they ended up talking about. Harry doesn’t want to embarrass Louis by bringing it up himself either, in case Louis _does_ remember.

So Harry is waiting for the go-ahead to pretend the whole thing never happened. Not because he’s scared to confront the situation (though he is a little), but because he just really doesn’t want to make a big deal out of nothing. Because it’s a lot easier to write off Louis’ vulnerable, desperate tone that night as a drunken mistake than what it could really mean. And anyway, it had hardly been riveting conversation, had it?

When Jamie joins the four of them, Harry’s distracted from thinking about Louis and reminded of why today was making him so nervous in the first place: it’s the first writing session without Zayn.

The four boys had ended the tour a little awkwardly – with them all parting ways feeling as if things were unfinished. It still feels like that now; like they’re just treading water until Zayn arrives, apologising for his tardiness before sitting down with them and brainstorming the latest album. Things just aren’t like that this time around, Harry has to remind himself. It seems like the rest of the boys have forgotten, too, though none of them would ever vocalise it. They’re fidgeting and playing on their phones – stalling – and the appearance of Jamie is like a slap in the face. Zayn isn’t ever going to show up to a writing session again.

Harry can’t quite place the stirring in his stomach at the realisation, deciding instead to push aside his melancholia to focus on the task at hand.

“Alright boys, I’m not actually meant to show you this without Julian or John,” begins Jamie in a serious tone, holding what looks like a demo CD and seemingly oblivious to the nervous atmosphere, “But they’re in London and we’re here, and we can’t afford to wait until next week when you’re back in the U.K. to start on the album.”

The four of them nod, switching immediately to their professional mode. They’re spread around the room on couches, Harry leaning forward in his seat and resting his chin in the groove between his thumb and pointer finger – a gesture that he hopes shows how intent he is (regardless of if his mind is elsewhere or not).

Harry chances another glance at Louis while Jamie sets up the CD player. He seems almost apprehensive to acknowledge Harry. He dares without words for Louis to meet his gaze, though, and when Louis finally complies it’s to offer Harry a ghost of a smile. It’s not the most cheerful smile he’s ever given Harry, but it’s definitely genuine and it tells Harry to shove the drunk call from the forefront of his mind. He responds with a delayed, relieved kind of smile before returning his attention to Jamie.

“I’m calling this a mixture between Taio Cruz and Maroon 5. The demo title is _Drag Me Down_ , but we can workshop that.”

“Hang on a minute – did you say _Taio Cruz and Maroon 5_?” remarks Liam incredulously, though he finds it more amusing than anything else. The fact that it’s a ridiculous musical combination is thought by all four of the boys, who exchange skeptical looks and murmurs of confusion. The atmosphere in the room lightens instantly, and Harry feels inexorably relieved.

“Just let the music do the talking.” Jamie replies, used to the boys critiquing and messing about with him far too long to humour it now.

“ _This’ll_ be good.” Louis adds sarcastically, almost under his breath – but Harry hears, and when their eyes meet they look away with matching stifled grins.

Jamie shushes them, clicks play, and lets the music fill the room.

Harry’s initial thought is that it’s not what he’s expecting. Certainly Jamie’s description did not do it justice. It’s upbeat and definitely sounds like a potentially successful single – but Harry’s not so sure if it sounds like a _One Direction_ single.

There’s a silence after the song ends, the boys exchanging looks, and Harry knows he’s not alone in his opinion on the track. That’s the thing about practically living in each other’s pockets the past four years: Niall, Liam, Louis and Harry just get each other.

“I gotta be honest with you, Jamie,” begins Niall, looking a little like he’s breaking bad news, “I don’t know about this one.”

“I agree with Niall, actually. It’s… I dunno. Too different.” Liam offers, pouting his lips a little to show his mistrust for it.

Harry nods vacantly at Liam’s words, finding himself a little lost in his own thought processes. The gesture isn’t lost to Jamie though, who eyes him; prompting without words for an explanation.

Harry thinks a moment.

“It doesn’t sound like _us_.” He explains in a slow, deep tone. He can see Louis nod in firm agreement from the corner of his eye, and it really shouldn’t make his chest heat up with pride – but it does.

“Doesn’t sound like Taio Cruz and Maroon 5 either, mate.” Louis adds with a little agitation. It is rare for the boys to get testy with new demos, but there’s so much riding on this one. They need a single that’ll put them back on the map – they need a song that’ll really speak to their fans as much as it speaks to them. Already, the writing process for this album is so different. They’re not writing on the road – a whole two months has been put aside to work on the album and, if everything goes to plan, the four of them will do a majority of the writing on it themselves. The music really has to reflect that.

Harry won’t settle for anything less than _their_ sound, _their_ lyrics, _their_ raw emotions. And he’s certain Louis, Liam and Niall won’t either.

Jamie looks disheartened by the collective dislike for a song he clearly has faith in.

“Okay, okay. I hear you. But just give it a chance,” he says imploringly and Harry’s sure he’ll spend the rest of the session convincing them this _Drag Me Down_ song is perfect for One Direction.

Jamie hits the replay button and _Drag Me Down_ fills the room for the second time. Harry looks to Louis, rediscovering that need to measure the older boy's’ reaction before making his own mind up. Harry used to do that a lot, when they were younger – turn to Louis for guidance. It’s strange to be overcome with the need to do it now, after all these years, when he’d trained himself out of it.

More silence. Jamie sighs.

“Think about the lyrics. This is a really powerful song for your debut as a four-piece, yeah?” He doesn’t even have to say Zayn’s name for them to know exactly what he’s referencing. Harry thinks about it and decides he’s right. They aren’t the only ones reeling from Zayn’s exit and this song has to tell the fans they’re still worth fighting for. If they tweak some of the instrumental and play around with it – make it their own – then Harry can see what Jamie is talking about.    

After their initial distrust of Jamie’s choice of song, things start coming together in the studio very nicely. They listen to a few other demos – Harry’s favourite is a track called _Infinity_ and he’s already thinking of different chords and musical notes for the bridge.

Whatever tension that was present between Louis and Harry is completely thawed by the end of the session, the two of them melting into easy conversation and small bursts of laughter. Harry is sure Niall and Liam can sense a shift – workshopping with Louis and Harry isn’t usually so light-hearted. If they notice, however, they’re wise not to bring it up. Chances are they simply equate the good mood to the overall success of the first writing session.

The band is already feeling the benefit of setting aside allocated writing time rather than cramming before shows and after hours. The whole process is much smoother and relaxed this time around, especially considering how uneasy Harry had been at the knowledge that Zayn wouldn’t be there. That was mostly in vain it seems. This feels like like a new chapter for the band and when they call it a day (several hours after first hearing _Drag Me Down_ ), Harry feels confident the next album is already making progress.

# …

The first week of workshopping album number five goes by in the blink of an eye. Before the next week is up, they’ll be flying over to London to start writing with Julian Bunetta and John Ryan. Until then, the four boys are making the best of their time in L.A. Most sessions find Niall fiddling with the guitar, Harry with his leather notebook in hand, whilst Liam and Louis mutter to each other, throwing the occasional lyric to the room at large. They take advantage of the Californian sun by sitting on the balcony, sunglasses and hats and laughter. It’s fun, is what it is.

At the end of their Friday writing session, Harry lingers a moment while Louis gathers his things. The two of them have been easing into a friendly dynamic the whole week, balancing this reunited bond with work. After all, it was being in the band that broke whatever they’d been in the first place.

Harry’s not waited around for Louis like this for a long time and so it’s understandable when Niall eyes him on his way out, perplexed and on the verge of questioning before he appears to let it go. Louis is just as perplexed as Niall had been, though he shows it off as pleasant surprise. Niall and Liam say their goodbyes, leaving Harry and Louis alone. They’ll be right back in the studio start of next week anyway, so no one is being sentimental with their departures.

The pair walk in comfortable silence, Harry just enjoying the very presence of Louis. With Louis around Harry always feels calm, even back when he was plagued with the knowledge that they weren’t even friends. He’s not sure what they are now – but it’s a step up from that, he’s sure. It all feels special and tentative, like it could shatter if he puts a toe out of line. Rebuilding what they lost will take time, he knows that, but it feels like they’re already putting down the foundations.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” chirps Louis after a moment, fiddling with his fringe. Harry can even hear the shakiness in his voice, as if he’s trying to sound nonchalant.

_Is he… nervous?_

Harry mulls the question over a second, walking steadily beside Louis into the elevator. He clicks the button, then folds his arms.

“Not really, no.” He answers, pouting his lower lip slightly in contemplation, “Do you?” The moment the words escape his lips he’s bombarded with the image of the two of them – spending quality time together, alone. He thinks maybe Louis wants that, too.

 _Is that why he looked kind of anxious bringing it up?_ Harry isn’t sure if it’s just wishful thinking, but he’s overpowered with the desire for Louis to want to spend time with him; to _ask_ to spend time with him. There’s a kind of anticipation, a tentative longing that Harry _swears_ is mutual… is he completely imagining things?

Louis nods softly to himself, looking vacantly ahead at the shining elevator doors. Thinking.

“Nah, probably not.” he decides.

And the moment is gone.

# …

It turns out Harry _does_ have plans for the weekend. After getting off the phone to his manager (who _strongly_ advises he’s seen with a pretty girl some time soon considering the rampant rumours), he texts Kendall Jenner. He could ask any of his female friends (considering the media thinks he’s dating any girl he’s seen with), but no one understands closeting quite like Kendall. Besides, she always manages to bring a smile on his face even during the worst of stunts, and Harry’s learned that for any of this to be slightly believable, he has to at least look like he’s enjoying himself.

She’s enthusiastic to catch up, as she always is, and Harry arranges to meet her at Café Habana for lunch despite the short notice. He chooses the local hotspot because it’s one of his favourites in town, and being a regular will ensure that at least _some_ fan pictures of him and Kendall will circulate (subsequently getting his manager off his back).

Nobody hates bearding more than Harry Styles does, so it’s lucky he hasn’t had to fake it as severely as he did with Taylor for the media to push their agenda. Most of the world has decided who they think he is without him having to lift a finger.

Harry Styles: The Womanizer. It couldn’t be any further from the truth. But stunts like these – just spending time with his good friend in public – well, he can stomach it. It’s beneficial for Kendall, too, and he hasn’t had the time to see her since he arrived in L.A. off the back of the tour. This’ll be good, he knows.

When Kendall sees Harry, she pulls him into a tight hug, swaying him slightly on the spot. There aren’t any paps around – this is for them.

“It’s been _forever_ ,” she says when they break apart, in her low Californian drawl.

Kendall isn’t someone Harry would consider a very best friend, but she’s a close one. They don’t see each other often and when they do, it’s mostly for publicity; but her relaxed demeanour is always refreshing. She’s such a culture shock compared to most of the people in the entertainment business that Harry usually associates with – she’s truly a free spirit and completely composed for someone so young and so famous. But that’s why Harry and Kendall click – that and the fact that they’re both gay. She just gets what Harry is going through, even if they do seem worlds apart, sometimes.

“We better find a table out the front,” she suggests after a moment, “You know, for the paps.” When she adds that part it’s dripping with cynicism, and she rolls her eyes, exasperated. It makes Harry crack a light laugh as he nods in agreement. She’s just as accustomed to the stunting as he is, even if she hasn’t been doing it for as long.

Once they find a table out the front, surrounded by potted plants and overhanging ferns which looks out onto the street (and very much in the public eye), they browse the menu. While his eyes are scanning the array of lunch options, Kendall waxes lyrical about walking in Chanel for the Spring Fashion Show in New York. He can tell she’s been bursting to tell him this, though she tries to sound mildly nonchalant. If there’s anything Harry has taught Kendall from their time together, it’s to appreciate the opportunities she’s handed. The longer he’s known her, the more she’s revealed the humble side of her.

Harry likes hearing about Kendall’s life – about the fashion shows and whatever new model she’s made friends with (she’s convinced this one is flirting, though she’s yet to find out her sexuality). Just hearing about what Kendall has going on is a nice distraction from his world.

By the time they order, Kendall is asking all kinds of questions about the latest tour and even about the album. She could talk his ear off about modelling, but Kendall always finds a way to talk about Harry, even if he is content just to listen. He promises her that any time she wants to come to a concert, all she has to do is send him a text and he’ll set it up. She promises she’ll drag Cara along when she does. He doesn’t ask her how things are on the Cara front, knows all too well what it's like to pine after your best friend. Last they spoke about it Kendall seemed to think it was all pretty futile and Harry isn’t about to dredge up something that is sure to make her upset. Kendall will give him details if and when she’s ready.

“Don’t look now,” murmurs Harry in a low tone, “But… a photographer just set up across the road.” He unfolds his arms and gestures minutely, one finger pointing.

Kendall smirks, but doesn’t turn around. She knows any photos with them looking into the lens of the camera will look staged. And then what was the point?

“Took their time,” she replies, readjusting in her chair so that she’s sitting closer. Harry notices, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

The worst part of stunting for Harry is the dishonesty. He hates putting on a show for them, he’s never been convincing at it. There was a reason he’d only really done it the one time – with Taylor Swift – and how afterward management had allowed the press to run away with their stories rather than Harry having to put effort into it. Once the media had his reputation marked out for him, it was pretty hard to shake.

When their food arrives, they’ve slipped into a comfortable ‘pose’ for the paparazzi. Harry’s leaning in, elbows on the table as Kendall drapes her arm close to his. She’s a naturally affectionate girl, so it’s not hard for her to amp up whatever she’d be like with Harry for the cameras. Their body language oozes casual intimacy and Harry can practically read the headlines to the gossip articles already.

Kendall goes to touch Harry’s wrist where the anchor tattoo is, but he clears his throat the second she does – passing it off as just swallowing a bite of food.

“Too much?” she asks and he laughs, but it’s a weary kind. She pulls away, but remains close. Kendall must sense the exhaustion of it all because then she says, “I know; I hate it, too.”

Harry only nods and returns his concentration to the food.

“Like, who cares who I date?” she prompts, sensing a dark cloud coming over the lunch date. Kendall has always had a way of making any situation seem lighter. But this time Harry can’t keep his mind off the bigger picture, the real issue.

“I’m gonna come out.” He says suddenly, looking up at her through long lashes, those signature frown lines deep in his forehead. He hadn’t necessarily planned to tell Kendall, only a few people know about it (Niall, Liam, Gemma and his mum to be exact). But Kendall is in the closet herself, she can tell him her perspective, can’t she?

The statement throws Kendall for a second and she seems to glance around her, checking if anyone else might’ve heard. Every other customer is either out the back or indoors, so they aren’t overheard. There’s definitely one girl sneaking a photo of them from inside but apart from that, no one’s even paying attention to the fact that two big name celebrities are eating lunch here. Regardless, Harry is beyond caring about his ‘secret’ getting out.

“Harry,” she begins softly, losing all sarcasm in an instant, “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been talking to an industry friend; he thinks he can make it happen.” It’s true – he has. Jeff Azoff is a friend before he is an industry insider, and the two of them have been discussing Harry’s options. Most of them meant cutting ties with Modest Management and especially Simon Cowell – but he can hardly do that without consulting his band mates. It’ll be a long process, with paperwork and meetings and money and contracts. And it’ll have to be handled incredibly delicately, especially where the public are concerned – but it’s going to happen.

Kendall doesn’t say anything, simply watches Harry intently. It makes him nervous.

He runs a hand through his long hair, clears his throat and leans back in his chair.

“I’ve wanted to for years,” He states matter-of-factly, pursing his lips a moment, “I think I can finally do it now, though.”

Kendall purses her lips a moment, contemplating exactly what to say.

“Do it.” she states strongly, and then a slight twitch at her lips as if she’s about to grin. “If you can make it work, _God,_ do it.” There’s something unmistakably bitter within the words, Harry knows; like she wishes she was in the position to get away with that.

“You could do it, too, you know.” He says after a moment, feeling like a load has been lifted just by having Kendall’s support. She shrugs through a mouthful of taco and doesn’t offer any other words. When she does speak again, it’s to change the topic back onto something more superficial, so Harry doesn’t push it.

He’s still thinking about it, though, when his phone buzzes in his back pocket a few minutes later. He pulls it out and can’t help the dimpled grin that plasters his face the moment he reads the text.

> **Diana took Iain’s ice cream out of the freezer it’s not gonna set in time that’s SABOTAGE !!**

It’s from Louis. He’s updating him on his TV binging session ever since Harry told him that the cure to feeling homesick in L.A. is to watch reruns of _The Great British Bake Off_.

His phone buzzes again, before he can even open the first message.

> **sue is NOT having any of it. she looks pissed .**

Looking at the message, Harry slips his phone down into his lap and leans against the table with his other hand – hiding the fact that he’s typing out a reply. He doesn’t want to be rude to Kendall, after all.

> **Are you doing a marathon of the Great British Bake Off in the middle of the day, Louis?**

Biting down absentmindedly on his pointer finger, he returns his attention to Kendall. She hasn’t really noticed his distraction.

> **That better not be judgement from you harold. its your fault I started this bloody show**

Harry literally has to suppress a grin, look back up at Kendall and pretend he’s not blushing. But not before he quickly types back.

> **No judgement. What episode are you on?**

And seconds later, Louis responds:

> **four. iain’s throwing a temper tantrum  he threw his whole Alaska in the bin !!!! the judges aren’t gonna like that move**

Harry just grins down at the text, getting lost in the moment – thinking, against his better judgement, of Louis hauled up on a couch somewhere watching _The Great British Bake Off_. Thinking how nice it would be if he joined him. Thinking.

Kendall is watching him carefully when he looks up from his phone. Her perfectly sculptured eyebrow is cocked, a quizzical expression on her pointed features.

“Mhm?” he sounds, hiding his smile in his hand and leaning closer, trying to look present in the moment.

She smirks. “What was that?” she asks, flat out.

“What? Nothing.” And he quickly locks his phone, not replying to Louis’ last text and instead shoving his phone in his pocket.

“Woh? _Noothin’”_ she mocks his accent in a low drawl. She never passes up an opportunity to imitate his British accent when she’s with him, she thinks it's _hilariously_ cultured. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that, right?”

“M’not lying!” he exclaims, guilt lacing his laughter.

Kendall laughs breathily before shaking her head in mock disappointment. But even though he’s sure she’s dying to know who could possibly change Harry’s expression from deep frown to crinkled eye smile, she doesn’t question it further. He’s silently thankful.

# …

The band goes to London in three days, but until then they still have work to do. On the Monday session, the last one before leaving, they’re left completely to their own devices. This isn’t totally rare – they get a lot of time to go off without any one from the label interfering, but this time is different. They’re hoping to come up with a complete demo for Julian to hear at the first London session next week.

Harry’s looking forward to the more self-guided approach and incredibly thankful that the meeting is late afternoon so he can manage a sleep-in. He’s also looking forward to seeing Louis, things with them have been getting steadily better and Louis’ good mood is incredibly infectious, _especially_ when he smiles and…

Harry is trying not to focus on that part though.

When he arrives though, something is really off. Harry can’t pinpoint what exactly, only that it has everything to do with Louis. They haven’t spoken since the weekend, when Louis was sending him a constant stream of his _The Great British Bake Off_ commentary. It had been good – hadn’t it? Harry hadn’t done anything to upset Louis, had he? He doesn’t think he has, but when he instinctively cracks a smile upon Louis’ entry, he’s met with a stony expression. And when he thinks Louis will sit close with him, so that they can talk quietly to themselves and pretend for even a little bit that it’s 2010 again, Louis walks stiffly past and sits at the opposite end of the room to Harry.

Liam notices – frowning a moment at Louis seated beside him before eyeing Harry a second.

“Lets get to it, boys.” states Louis in an exasperated tone, rubbing his hands together and blatantly ignoring Liam’s perplexity.

There’s a lingering silence before Liam agrees, effectively shrugging off any speculations. Harry figures he should do the same so he shakes the thought that something is wrong. They’re at work. There’s no time for dramatics. It must all be in his head, anyway, right? He forces himself to ignore it, focusing on the writing.

But as the hours tick by and the sky darkens into night, Harry is quick to realise his fears aren’t unfounded. Louis barely talks to him the entire time and Niall and Liam are left to awkwardly work around the tension in the room. It’s something else putting them all on edge as well, something about writing their first song from scratch. They spend whole chunks of time just sitting in silence, the occasional disgruntled sigh or scrunch of notepaper being tossed in the bin. There’s the suggestions thrown to the room at large, but they’re swallowed up quickly or vetoed without much thought.

Writer's block. It’s a complete pain in the arse.

Harry knows it's more than that, though. He can’t help but think this is a delayed reaction to Zayn leaving. The first week of writing went suspiciously smoothly and now they’re feeling the repercussions. It’s all catching up to them – the reality of it – that he’s really gone and that it's all down to the four of them to pick up the pieces he shattered in his wake. Harry’s not really that surprised either, considering all of them are terrible at communicating their feelings where Zayn is concerned. Harry thinks that if they just talked it out, maybe, if they just addressed the issue head on – but that would never happen. None of them want to even think about Zayn, let alone admit to each other that they’re still trying to heal from it.

“This is hopeless,” Liam states grumpily, breaking the silence, “We’re not getting anything done.”

“What d’you suggest we do, then?” asks Niall, a hint of defensiveness. Harry’s eyes dart to Louis, but he refuses to look back at him. They’re all on edge.

“Let's get out. Go somewhere.” Harry answers before anyone can start the argument that’s waiting to happen. They need a break, some fresh air – maybe something to eat. Anything to diffuse the tension.

Niall is the first to figure out what Harry is suggesting and he’s almost too enthusiastic, itching to shrug off the strain of the last three hours of wasted time.

“Yeah,” He says, standing up, “We just need a break. Get some dinner or something.”

So that’s exactly what they do. But as they gather themselves up and head begrudgingly out the door, Harry stops Louis in the hall. Louis whips his head around at the physical contact, staring down at Harry’s hand which he quickly drops. He doesn’t even like being _touched_ by Harry. Was he a fool to think they were getting better? Or is this something completely new that’s ripping them apart yet again?

“Why are you bein’ a dickhead?” Harry murmurs, low – he’s keeping quiet, not wanting to make a scene. They’ve lagged behind considerably, so it’s unlikely they’ll be overheard – but still.

“A _what?_ ” Louis’ voices raise an octave indignantly – or maybe it’s his terrible attempt at acting oblivious. He’s staring up at Harry, properly looking into his eyes. It distracts Harry for a split second, but he forces himself to press the subject.

“A dickhead,” Harry repeats, deadpan, “You’ve been rude to me all day.”

“Have not.” Louis’ answer is almost _too_ quick, _too_ defensive and Harry narrows his eyes ever so slightly, his mind racing endlessly. He’s searching those blue eyes for something – anything – to explain the sudden shift between them. He can practically feel Louis’ heart rate quickening just by looking at him and it makes Harry thinks, _what could possibly make Louis so nervous?_

“Have I done something to upset you?” he asks smoothly, surprising even himself by the lack of heartache in the question. It’s certainly there, deep down, but he manages to conceal it.

Louis opens his mouth as if to say something, gapes a moment up at Harry who’s frowning back, lost for words. And then the moment he looks like he’s got an answer, Niall clears his throat and both Louis and Harry move apart. Harry hadn’t even realised how close they’d been standing until he’s stepping away, messing with his hair awkwardly and avoiding Louis flustered beside him.

“We good to go?” asks Niall, eyebrows raised slightly. By the look on his face, he’s entirely aware that he interrupted something.

“Yeah, yeah,” answers Louis awkwardly, fixing his fringe before shoving his hands in his pockets and following Niall without a backward glance.

# …

It’s late when they head back to the car, bellies full of take away and minds rested of ill thoughts. Getting away from the studio was the very best remedy they could have asked for. All it took was some time away from it all to re-evaluate. They’d found themselves on a hill somewhere in the Boulevard overlooking the city, greasy take away dinner and soft drinks in hand. For a while they just sat side by side in silence, watching as each light dimmed in the distance – thinking of all the lives down in the valley, thinking of time standing still for them while the rest of the city slumbers. It puts everything into perspective somehow.

“There’s always going to be slow writing days.” Liam says eventually, reassuring the boys just like he always does that they’re strong enough to get through anything. He’s really the glue in the band sometimes, Harry thinks.

The four of them are too tired to talk it out any further than that – but they don’t need to. Just getting away from it all like that had been enough.

In the car they’ve returned to their usual selves – laughing and making cheeky remarks. It’s late at night and everything they say is brought on by their own tired hazes and even the stupidest thing is enough to make them snort with laughter. It’s weighed down for Harry, though; almost as if he’s holding himself back. It’s all because of Louis, who – despite the confrontation in the hallway – has remained more or less the same. Harry thinks he’s warmed up a little. At one point that he gets Louis to crack a smile, but it subsides quickly, as if he’s purposefully trying stop himself. He can’t figure out why Louis would do that. Harry used to be able to read Louis like a book – a single glance could speak a thousand words. Now, he can barely get Louis to look at him long enough to recognise anything beyond the surface level. It’s like every step forward leads to two steps back.

Niall gets out his guitar (he takes it nearly everywhere) and starts mindlessly strumming – a constant background hum as they talk at and over each other in the backseat of the car. Liam winds down the window, letting the biting wind in and around them. All Harry can see, wedged between Louis and Liam, is the dark landscape blurring past.

“Do you quite mind, Liam?” quips Louis in an argumentative, yet playful tone, his eyebrows raised. Liam looks over, baffled, and Niall hesitates at his guitar a second but still plays. Neither of them seem to understand what Louis is referring to – except Harry, who can see the cold is already flooding into Louis’ features.

“You what?”

“The _window_ , mate!” exclaims Louis, gesturing across Harry as if it’s obvious, “It’s fuckin’ freezing!”

Not looking up from his guitar, Niall repeats Louis’ words, stringing them into a song, but Louis ignores it. Harry knows how Louis gets when he’s cold – grumpy and completely unfiltered. Harry smirks a little at Niall, but tries to hide it.

“It’s _spring!_ ” retorts Liam, finding Louis’ anger absolutely laughable. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Niall repeats it to the strum of his guitar, quiet, making Harry snigger silently between Liam and Louis who continue to stare each other down.

“You’re talkin’ out of your arse, Payno!” Louis yells, half anger and half amusement, shaking with the cold. Niall strums his guitar a little louder, repeats it sing-song, _talking out of your asses_ and Louis sends him a death glare. “Niall, you shit; I _swear_ –” but before he can finish whatever threat he’s got for the grinning Niall, Harry interrupts him.

“Wait,” He says, leaning forward in his seat, frowning at Niall. His interjection effectively draws all attention to him. “Do that again, Niall.”

Niall looks baffled a second – he was only messing around after all, just trying to make the boys laugh, if anything. But he obliges. He plays the same chords – it’s a simple melody, _but there’s something about it_ , Harry thinks.

“Try ‘our’ instead of ‘your’.” He suggests after a moment of contemplating. By this point the rest of the boys have caught on and the row about the window is abandoned. Niall sings again, the tweaked version, _talking out of our asses,_ and then he seems to see what Harry is putting down and ad-libs, _like we’re all gonna make it._ That part gets Liam and Louis’ full attention, if it hadn’t already.

It doesn’t take long for a song to spring collectively to their minds, by which Louis has his phone out, recording a voice memo so that they won’t lose it. They build up the melody before the track truly takes shape, a spur of the moment piece born entirely from late night petty bickering. Harry and Niall are the ones to think of the chorus – _won’t you stay til’ the A.M.?_ While Liam and Louis brainstorm verses. There’s something fresh and organic about it – just the four of them in the backseat of a car throwing lyrics around, getting progressively enthusiastic as the song pieces together. There are grins, too, because suddenly they really _don’t_ have writer’s block.

They only stop brainstorming when they pull up outside the studio (they told the driver to turn around as soon as they knew they might be onto something), flooding out of the car and heading upstairs to sit around on the floor together and workshop again.

The room is electric – so much so that Harry can almost forget the worries he had about Louis earlier. He sits cross legged and opposite Niall, who’s still strumming the same chords over and over on his guitar until they’re happy with the particular lyric they’re working on. There’re murmurs of agreement and singing in unison and it feels like one of the best workshops of a song that the four of them have done together in a long time.

It’s Louis that comes up with the intro: 

> _Feels like this could be forever tonight,_
> 
> _Break these clocks forget about time,_
> 
> _There could be a world war three goin’ on outside_
> 
> _You and me were raised in the same part of town,_
> 
> _Got these scars on the same ground_

Every line is ringing truer than ever; the four best friends sidled up in that room, the rest of the world asleep outside. The simple lyrics make Harry think about the past four years and what they’ve achieved together hauled up in hotel rooms, or in the back of cabs at the end of shows still drunk off the energy of thousands of fans screaming with joy. The song speaks of mates just kicking about, laughing in the face of adversity and fighting against sleep just to laugh that little bit longer. No one understands each other quite like the four of them, Harry knows. And even though a little part of their family has gone, writing this song reminds Harry just how grateful he is.

Harry is looking at Louis when he thinks of the next lyric, singing it softly and hoping to God the other boys don’t catch on to the deeper meaning.

“ _You know, I’m always going back to this place_ ,” he sings, vulnerability in every syllable, “ _You know I’m always going to look for your face,”_ He has to look away when Louis catches his eye, hopes no one sees his cheeks reddening. He knows his lyrics don’t tie in with the rest of the song, the kind of longing within them reserved only for Louis. But Niall nods encouragingly, humming a little to himself, not giving away if he thinks something hides behind those words.

Louis doesn’t stop eyeing Harry after that, sneaking glances and making the younger man feel on edge. He wants to tell Louis to _fucking_ quit it – stop messing around, just explain why he’s been acting so bizarre all day. But he knows he won’t get answers soon, especially not with Liam and Niall around.

By the time it's half two in the morning, most of the song is roughly drafted. Liam announces he’s practically falling asleep and Niall is quick to agree that they should pick it up again in London. But Harry’s a little too transfixed with the song, barely looking up from his journal. Louis declares he’s wide awake, though Harry is sure he saw him yawning minutes ago. Niall can see through Louis’ lies too, it seems, because he frowns at him as he puts his guitar away.

“Good session, boys,” Niall finally says with a heaved breath, rubbing his eyes a little, “See ya at the airport.”

It isn’t the first time Harry and Louis are left alone in the studio since they started writing the fifth album, but Harry is hyper aware of the difference this time around. He wonders who’s going to break the silence, sitting together with their backs against the foot of the couch. He hates the tension, hates that literally last week being alone with Louis would have been a blessing. Why had everything crumbled to ruins again?

Harry’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to see a text from Niall. 

> **What was with Louis today ? you didn’t fight did you ?**

He’s typing back a reply, almost glad for an excuse to look busy rather than sit awkwardly – he’d abandoned the notebook in the hopes of talking to Louis.

“Texting _her_ , are you?” remarks Louis in a tone as cold as ice.

Harry looks over at him, registers the stony look in Louis’ eyes and frowns.

“Who?”

“C’mon, don’t make me say it.”

When Harry does nothing but stare pointedly, Louis’ shoulders slacken with frustration and a look of irritation fills his features.

“Kendall Jenner.” He practically rolls his eyes when he does it, but there’s not much attitude, more bitterness. Harry would even call it jealousy, but he forces himself not to think that.

“No,” retorts Harry, frowning indignantly. He hadn’t expected Louis to say that at all. “It’s Niall, actually.” And then because the hostility on Louis’ end is beginning to seem progressively unwarranted, he adds, “He wants to know why things were so weird between us today. I told him I could ask the same thing.”

“Oh,” Harry’s bluntness has caught him completely off guard. He’s embarrassed, that much is obvious. “I thought…”

“You thought _what_ , Louis?” Harry prompts curtly, feeling a little angry now.

“I don’t know.” He answers sheepishly. It’s the blush in his cheeks and his averted eyes that make Harry realise. It’s dawning on him now, what had changed since last week that had made Louis so standoffish. _The Café Habana stunt._

_Oh, god._

He remembers how Louis was the last time Harry did this – with Taylor – and what a _mess_ he’d been. Magazines have been alluding to romance with Kendall on and off since 2014, but back then Louis and Harry didn’t even talk. Now they’re closer, _fixing things_ , and the romantic pap pictures probably weren’t helping. But _Jesus_ , he _thought_ … he was _so sure_ …

“Louis. I’m gay.” He states calmly, thinking inexplicably of the feel of Louis’ lips on his. How is it that, even after all this time, he can still remember how _good_ that felt? He wonders if he’ll ever feel that again.

“Oh.” Is all Louis can manage, completely caught off guard by the declaration. Harry watches his face closely, notices it’s not quite a surprise to Louis, but a confirmation.

“I thought you knew.” They have never really talked about it before, but how could Louis not know? Maybe he’d never exactly said the words _I'm gay_ to Louis, maybe he hadn’t even really told him just how madly in love with him he was. But hadn’t he spent so long trying to prove it without words? Hadn’t his eyes given him away? His lingering hands – _everything_ magnetized to Louis. He’d given up a long time ago, that much is true, but once upon a time Harry couldn’t keep away from Louis even if he tried.

_How did they end up here?_

“I wasn’t sure,” Louis answers in a small voice, “I guess I did, yeah.”

Harry wonders what is going through Louis’ mind, wonders if he’s thinking of those intimate moments they shared, too. He knows he won’t ever forget them, but sometimes he fears Louis has. Harry forces himself to shove the memories to the back of his mind, focus on the present. He’d be lucky to have half the friendship he used to have with Louis again. He isn’t about to dredge up anything that could jeopardise that.

Louis seems to struggle with something a second, shifting uncomfortably beside Harry.

“Me, too.” Louis says finally, fiddling with his fringe and looking at his feet. Harry doesn’t understand what he means for a split second and then Louis clears his throat and adds, “I mean – I’m gay as well.”

In the wake of Louis’ declaration, Harry doesn’t know what else to do other than regard him with a kind of sadness. Because _of course_ Harry knows Louis is gay. They never had to talk it out for him to just _know_. Those butterflies Harry would get looking at Louis, the quickening heart beat and electricity with every touch – that’s something that couldn’t be unreciprocated. It was mutual. Harry has always been sure of it. And even with Hannah and Eleanor and every single rumour from _every single_ tabloid – Harry has just always known. But he can tell by the way Louis takes far too long to look Harry in the eye that this is something not many people have the privilege to hear. It feels important.

They look at each other intensely and then Harry nods slowly, compassion written all over his concerned features. He prays it says what words can’t. Because he knows this is something big.

“Kendall is just a good friend,” Harry says, reiterating the original reason for the entire conversation, “She understands… what it's like.” He knows he isn’t making sense but he’s hardly going to out Kendall just to put Louis’ mind at ease.

“Yeah, ‘course,” mutters Louis, shuffling slightly on the spot, pretending his unease is simply a readjustment of his seated position, “Stupid of me. Dunno what I was thinking.”

There’s an awkward silence in which both men soak in the vulnerability they’ve shared. It’s like they’re sixteen and eighteen again, like they’re lying in bed in the X Factor house, the entire world at their feet. Like they’re so young and so naïve, learning about each other for the first time, wanting to know the other boy like the back of their hand; as if maybe a bit of that innocence can be restored. But not quite, Harry thinks, when the silence gets almost deafening. It won’t ever be as it used to.

“Sorry bout being a fuckin’ idiot earlier.” Louis says, offering a sheepish, self-deprecating smile in Harry’s direction. How is Harry supposed to deny _that_ face?

“S’okay.” He says gently.

They’ve got a lot to catch up on, that much is clear. But it's late and both of them are exhausted. There’s no reason for them to stay back any later, at least no reason that either of them are willing to admit to. In a perfect world, time would stand still for them so that they could just let it all out. This isn’t a perfect world, though, and at almost four in the morning Louis and Harry find themselves wandering to their respective cars with the intent of calling it a night.

“Did you finish _The Great British Bake Off_?” asks Harry with a coy smile, already walking backward toward his car, but still facing Louis.

Louis scoffs and has to look off past Harry to stop himself from grinning too wide.

“Nancy won. I was rooting for Dorothy, though.” He gives a disappointed shrug and it’s hard for Harry not to find it completely adorable.

“ _Everyone_ loves Dorothy.”

“It was a _damn_ technicality that she lost! She was robbed of it!” exclaims Louis, making Harry snort with laughter.

They both stand there, lingering apart from one another, their smiles fading into the cold night. Harry wants so badly not to leave.

“Erm…” Harry clears his throat, “Louis?” He runs a hand through his long hair nervously.

“Yeah?” he looks expectant, fists shoved into jean pockets, swaying slightly on the spot.

“I’m glad you told me,” He says softly, “Y’know.” he gestures vaguely in the hopes Louis will understand what he’s referring to without him having to be explicit about it. It seems Louis does, because something flickers across his features, something Harry can’t quite decipher. And then he nods firmly, lips pursed to contain whatever emotion threatens to rise to the surface.

Harry sits in his car a little while – hears Louis’ ignition, sees the tail lights flash in his line of vision before disappearing out of the car park. Once he’s completely alone he tilts his head back against the seat and stares at the roof of the car with vacant eyes – his body fatigued, but his mind wide awake – wondering how he’s supposed to go to sleep after everything that’s just happened.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • [Louis ‘I’m Grumpy When I’m Cold’ Tomlinson](https://youtu.be/5WoZhC01XZU?t=1m50s) (and having a row about the car window)  
> • [The band hearing 'Drag Me Down' the first day in the studio](https://youtu.be/FaJbYPX32Ys?t=4m57s) (includes details like how James wasn’t supposed to show without Julian and John, them disliking it initially, the Taio Cruz and Maroon 5 description)  
> • [The band hearing 'Infinity' first day of writing ](https://youtu.be/FaJbYPX32Ys?t=8m20s)  
> • [ 'Great British Bake Off', Episode 4 of Season 5, called ‘Deserts’](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_British_Bake_Off_\(series_5\)#Episode_4:_Desserts) (in which Diana really does sabotage Iain’s ice cream and he throws away his Alaska. Dorothy is a made up character though. Nancy does win that series – sorry for the spoiler folks.)


	4. History

_‘You and me got a whole lot of history, we could be the greatest team that the world has ever seen. You and me got a whole lot of history, so don’t let it go, we can make some more, we can live forever.’_  

When Louis arrives in Heathrow on the back of a ten hour flight, the first thing he wants to do is collapse on his hotel bed and go to sleep. But he hasn’t been back to the U.K. in months and with the sun still high in the sky, the day has barely begun. If Louis has learnt anything about travelling from place to place in his years in the band, it’s that ignoring your body clock is the only way you can adjust to a new time zone more quickly.

He’s got about three days before the band is back in the studio again – three days to readjust to the London time zone, three days to reacquaint himself with his roots. He plans to do a lot of things, like shop at his local Marks and Spencer for dinner, and grab a pint with Stan at his favourite pub. However, all those things are bottom of the list when compared to family. So with that in mind, Louis dials his home phone as the taxi driver loads his luggage into the boot of the car.

Silently cursing when it goes to voicemail, Louis slides into the back seat and watches the airport disappear out of sight, his mum’s pre-recorded voice echoing in his ear.

“You’ve reached the Tomlinson household.” She says, there’s a muffled sound, and then the voice of Lottie, Fizzy, Daisy, and Phoebe hurriedly stating their names in quick succession before Jay returns to the line, “We’re a little busy at the mo’. If you leave a message, we’ll get back to you.”

The message was recorded years ago and Jay claims she can’t figure out how to update it, blaming it on the technology rather than the fact that she’s just clueless with it. Last Louis checked, Dan didn’t mind being left out of the family answering machine, mostly because he loved the existing one so much.

Louis doesn’t leave a message. He has no reason to listen to the whole voice recording in the first place, only that it makes him smile fondly hearing their voices. Instead he gives his Doncaster address to the driver and settles in for a long drive. He figures he can cheat a little on his travel rule, because within the half hour he’s fast asleep.

It’s midday when the cab pulls up outside Louis’ family home. He shoves the McDonald's burger wrapper from the drive through half an hour prior into his jeans pocket before grabbing his luggage.

He remembers exactly where the spare key is – underneath the pot of Gardenias by the front step – and he chuckles triumphantly to himself when he discovers it’s still hidden there. Unlocking the front door with ease, (he feels oddly like the fifteen year old version of himself, heading home after a long day at school) Louis wanders into the hall, shutting the door behind him gently.

“'Ello?” he calls, met with instant silence. “Anybody home?” He frowns a little, listens intently and hears the faint reverberation of the TV in the living room. He pokes his head around the corner and sees the back of a bleached head which makes him break into a beaming smile. “Oi, Lotts. Didn’t anybody tell you TV rots ya brain?”

The instant Louis speaks his younger sister’s slouched, casual demeanour turns into rigid fright as she whips her head around in surprise. The moment her face registers who it is, she’s leaping to her feet, and Louis thinks: _aw, isn’t that sweet, she missed me so much_ until –

“ _Ow!_ ” he yelps, recoiling and rubbing his shoulder where Lottie punched him. She sure can be vicious when she wants to – they have that in common. “What was that for!?” he exclaims in a high-pitched outrage. “Haven’t seen your loving big brother in months and _this_ is the welcome I get?”

Lottie doesn’t say anything in response, just looks up at him with big doe eyes before she launches herself into Louis’ arms, the force of the impact making him stubble back slightly.

“That’s more like it.” He says in a breathy laugh, muffled by her hair, and responding by pulling her into a tighter embrace.

“You idiot,” she mumbles into his jumper, the two of them swaying slightly on the spot. When she pulls away, she shoves Louis lightly in the arm again. “I thought you were an intruder or somethin’. Why didn’t you say you were coming home?”

“Wanted to surprise ya.”

“Well, it worked. Gave me a heart attack.”

Louis just beams at that, a kind of mischievous grin reserved only for the most child-like spirited moments he shares with his siblings. He glances past Lottie for a fraction of a second, a glimpse into the kitchen at the end of the hall – but it’s empty. Lottie knows instantly who he’s looking for and is quick to explain.

“Mum’s at the Hospital, she’ll be home before dinner, I think.” She says.

“No more night shifts, then?” he asks, remembering his mother’s recent complaints of the frustrating nursing hours conflicting with motherhood.

“Nah, too exhaustin’ with the twins. Work actually listened this time.” she rolls her eyes, the pair of them exasperated by the old work routine when they were growing up.

“S’good,” Louis nods, feeling only slightly crestfallen that their reunion will have to wait another few hours. He’s glad, though, that his mum doesn’t have to work around the clock like she used to. He sucks in a breath and smiles. “Where’s the rest of the Brady bunch?” He knows the youngest twins must be at daycare if Dan and mum are at work, but there’s still the rest of his sisters.

“At school, knob-head. It’s a week day.” Says Lottie in her monotone voice, a slight smirk the only give away that she’s teasing him.

“ _Alright, cheeky_ , how come you’re not at school too, then?”

She shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Didn’t feel like going in today.”

“And Mum just let you stay home alone?” asks Louis disbelievingly, eyebrows raised incredulously.

“She’s a lot more chill now days than she was with you.”

Louis scoffs and folds his arms for dramatic effect. “ _Hey,_ you say that like I was a handful. I’ll have you know I was the perfect son. Didn’t skip class once, unlike _some_ people I know.”

“You failed your A Levels.” Lottie quips, the ghost of smugness twitching at her lips. Lottie is virtually the only one who can match Louis’ banter without getting an earful from him in response. Their shared wit only differentiated by the quiet, composed, almost shy approach Lottie has versus Louis’ loud, bold aggression.  

“I’m barely in the door and you’re already criticisin’ me. What is this?” Lottie laughs and Louis can hardly maintain the stony façade before he’s laughing too. He’s missed her so much.

She’s walking into the other room, Louis following a few steps behind. “And, for your information, I only failed my A Levels the first time!” He says with a mixture of defensiveness and pride, “Aced them the second time. And at least I was _attending class_ to take ‘em.”

Lottie turns around at that part, rolling her eyes and poking her tongue out – only to get a tongue sticking out in response from the equally obnoxious Tomlinson.

“D’you want some tea?” offers Lottie in a more amicable tone as they enter the kitchen, looking over her shoulder at Louis as she grabs the kettle and starts filling it with water.

Louis almost sighs with relief.

“Please.” Is all he says, exhausted almost before sliding into a kitchen chair and watching his younger sister. He just does that for a minute; watches her clunk the kettle back on its base, clicks the red button before reaching up on her tiptoes to grab two mugs. He never thought how fond he’d feel just seeing his little sister preparing him a cup of tea in their family home. He’s missed it.

“So fill me in, then.” He says after a moment, the kettle getting louder and louder, making Louis raise his voice just a fraction so that he can be heard clearly. “What’s been happening in Lottie land? Y’know, _aside_ from being a teenage delinquent abandoning your education.”

Lottie smirks a little to herself, focusing her eyes on the mugs in her hand as she makes her way to the table. She slides Louis’ mug to him and he softly thanks her before she sits down opposite him.

“Nothing much.” She answers, tone a little lacklustre.

“Oh, c’ _mon_ ,” he presses, smiling ever so slightly. He’s leaning down and blowing gently on his tea, watching the steam rise. He hasn’t had tea in days and he’s impatient for it to cool enough to scull. “There’s gotta be somethin’. I’ve not been home in weeks.”

Lottie rolls her eyes. “But we’ve talked on the phone nearly every day.” When Louis glowers at her, she just laughs a little, blows on her tea and sips. She places her mug back down. “Um…” she ponders. “I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Louis reckons he could have spat tea out in that moment had he been drinking it. Lucky it was still too hot for his delicate taste buds, then. “You _what?_ A new one? What happened to the other one!”

“We broke up ages ago!”

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” Louis murmurs under his breath, wondering what else he doesn’t know about. He loves tour – he really does – but sometimes he feels he’s missing out on something back home. “What was wrong with ‘im!”

“He was _boring_. I don’t know!”

“Jesus, Lottie. Who is this joker?”

“His name is Tommy.”

“Tommy? What kind of name is that?” says Louis, only half joking. It makes his little sister heave a sigh – she can see through his tough protective older brother act in a second. “Tommy.” He repeats under his breath for emphasis, shaking his head in mock disapproval. He takes a second, watching his sister smirk and shake her head at his antics. “Meet him in school?”

“No, he doesn’t go to school. He graduated.”

Louis raises his eyebrows, almost laughs coldly. “He’s _older?_ Are you trying to give me a heart attack at 23?”

Lottie laughs, rolls her eyes. She looks almost embarrassed as she thinks of what she’s about to say; fiddles with the handle on her mug. “He’s sweet to me.”

Louis can’t help but smile to that. “He better be. I have friends in high places, you know.”

After about thirty minutes of a much more solid recap from Lottie about life in Doncaster without him, they’re on the topic of the tour and the band. After Zayn left and Louis’d had time to cool down a little, the first thing he’d done was call Lottie. So there’s not much to fill her in on. Bringing him up now is short and quick – both of them aware of the tension it brings to think of it.

“Nice what he said in his acceptance speech at the Asian Awards the other day, though.” Says Lottie, almost as a question after Louis admits he hasn’t been in contact with Zayn in weeks. She watches her brother tentatively for a reaction.

“You saw that, huh?” _Who didn’t,_ he thinks. It was everywhere. A big story, that – the ex-boybander’s first public appearance since dramatically leaving the band mid tour. First public appearance and he wins the Outstanding Achievement in Music at the Asian Awards. And of course Naughty Boy had been there, but Zayn went ahead and thanked One Direction anyway. Louis regrets watching the video. Almost as much as he regrets not texting Zayn to congratulate him for it.

“It was in the _Daily Mail_.” she concedes, looking a little embarrassed to have been keeping tabs on her brother’s ex best friend. Louis doesn’t mind, though; he knows it’s hardly easy to escape gossip on the internet. And anyway, she’s right. It was nice, what he said.

“Yeah, well.” He heaves a breath, grumpy, and makes vague gesture as if he intends to finish his sentence without words. He doesn’t really know what to say about it, anyway. Lottie doesn’t press the issue.

The siblings are still sipping their tea when Louis’ phone buzzes. It’s a text from Harry.

> **Did you arrive in London safe and well, Louis?**

He wants to roll his eyes and blush at the same time when he reads it. Just thinking about concerned Harry, somewhere across the city with those deep frown lines and a need to check up on Louis...

“No phones at the dinner table.” Lottie orders in her best impression of an authoritative Jay. It makes Louis laugh, Lottie cracking a proud grin. She watches him with folded arms against the table top before she says in her regular tone, “Who is it?”

Louis thinks for a second about lying, before deciding there’s nothing to lie about. He can’t figure out why Harry texting him makes Louis so nervous to tell his sister – his sister who he shares virtually everything with. Well… _not everything_.

“Harry.” He tries to sound as casual as he can, but knows he’s failed.

Lottie raises her eyebrows, stops drinking her tea and sets it down before asking: “Harry? As in Harry _Styles?_ ”

Louis huffs. “No, Lotts, Harry as in Prince Harry of England.” he retorts sarcastically, gesturing randomly for dramatic effect, “‘ _Course_ Harry Styles, don’t know any other Harry.”

Lottie ignores her brother’s joking deflection, knowing all too well how adept Louis is at skirting around a topic he’s not too keen on talking about. “Harry is texting you?” she reiterates, looking baffled, “ _Now_ who’s being the secretive one.” She’s only teasing, a subtle smirk pulling at her lips – but it makes Louis’ stomach churn.

“It’s not a _secret,_ ” he defends quickly, “It’s just…” he searches for the right word, “ _New_. Didn’t get a chance to tell ya.”

“ _What_ is?” she asks immediately, her voice indicating how bizarre the idea of something ‘new’ between Louis and Harry is.

“I don’t know, do I? We’re friends again. It just kind of happened.” Louis stares down at his tea, stirring with his spoon absentmindedly.

“Two people who used to be joined at the hip and then couldn’t stand to be in the same room together don’t _just kind of happen_ to become friends again.” Lottie remarks pointedly, demonstrating yet again how annoyingly perceptive she is. Nothing gets past that girl, he swears.

“It was never like that, Lottie; we didn’t– we didn’t _hate_ each other it just…” he trails off, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck lazily.

Lottie never knew the full extent of how things had been with Harry in the past. She had been too young – but then again, nobody really knew. It had been between Louis and Harry and it was over before anyone could truly do more than speculate. And Louis had never been really good at talking about it, either – in fact, Harry’s name had been sort of taboo in the Tomlinson house during the years after they’d drifted. Lottie’s reaction is to be expected, Louis knows that, but he hates that she doesn’t understand. _No one ever will,_ he thinks.   

“It doesn’t matter.” He finally says with a stiff, almost forced smile. He’s not talked about his new-found friendship Harry with anyone before. “It's just good to be friends again. Without Z… I don’t know, we all need to stick together as a band.”

“I’m glad.” Lottie says unexpectedly, gulping her tea again, “You were always happier around Harry.”

Louis nods vacantly, staring off in thought. Lost in a trance of all the times Harry made him laugh, all the times Harry brought a smile to his face when he’d been sad, all the times just being near Harry had put Louis at ease. Even his sister, who’d been a fourteen year old girl at the time, could see the effect Harry’d had on Louis. Could she see the effect he still has?

He clears his throat and looks back at Lottie. “Actually, I, uh… I came out to him a few days ago.” Aside from Zayn, Louis’ family had been the only ones to know he's gay. That is, until Harry. But he’s pretty sure he knew all along – and even more sure that others suspect as much. Louis came out to his sister just over a year ago, though at the time he was still figuring things out. Lottie always gave good advice and, being so similar, she just understands him like no one else in his family does. They’ve always been close, so sharing something like that never really seemed like a big deal to Louis. He was right, of course – Lottie just nodded and hugged him, told him he was still her big idiot brother who she loved.  

“Really? How’d that go?”

“Good. He knew, I think.” _Please don’t ask me how he knew._ He shares a lot of things with Lottie, but the intimate moments with Harry weren’t any of them.

Lottie nods minutely, shifting so that her cheek rests against the palm of her hand.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah… yeah, it is. Just surreal, that’s all.” He laughs uneasily and Lottie smiles with reassurance. He thinks back to the moment in the studio, thinks of the flood of relief he felt the moment he told him. Sure, it had been nerve wracking – completely terrifying even – but he’s so glad he did it. He isn’t afraid to be who he is anymore. When he compares confiding in Harry that night to the times when they were young and naïve and unsure of everything – so unsure that they couldn’t even tell each other what they were feeling – it’s an improvement, to say the least. Louis is overwhelmingly proud of the people they are now, even if he’s lost his chance to redeem some of what they used to have. He wouldn’t trade his self confidence for anything. And now that he’s done the hardest part – coming out to Harry – he can begin the process with the rest of the lads. One step closer to being completely free.

“I’m proud of you.” She says quietly but with conviction. That’s the one thing they don’t have in common – Lottie is far better displaying cringe-worthy love in a way Louis can never quite master. _God, that kid is wise beyond her years_.

“Don’t be a sap, you’ll make your big brother cry.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, grinning. “Twat.”

“That’s more like it.” Louis beams.

 

**Flashback: January 2011**

When Harry told Louis he’s never seen _Grease_ , Louis took it as a challenge to make it Harry’s new favourite film. The younger boy is sleeping over and after begging his mum for a solid ten minutes prior to Harry’s arrival, Jay finally concedes in allowing the boys full reign of the TV room for the night. This means complete privacy, doors shut and most importantly – no annoying little sisters to come and embarrass Louis in front of Harry.

It is late. Well, ‘late’ by the standards of two teenage boys whose bedtimes are still set by their mothers. The luxury of staying up past 10:30pm is strictly reserved for occasions such as these – and both Harry and Louis are taking full advantage.

Louis takes his role of introducing Harry to the 80’s classic musical _very_ seriously – giving a running commentary of even the littlest of things. He can’t shut up, quite frankly. But if Harry minds, he never shows it – only giggling and grinning at his best friend whenever he speaks. Louis mimes the lyrics and yells across the movie’s dialogue just to tell Harry a particularly ridiculous anecdote from when he’d played Danny in his high school production. All the while Harry listens intently, nodding his head to indicate to Louis just how fascinating everything he said is.

They sit close on the couch, sharing a blanket because the heater broke the week before (‘ _Christ, and in the middle of winter! Just our luck’_ Jay had cursed). The lights are out, Louis only just making out Harry’s features from the blaring glow of the TV.

“This is the _best bit_.” Louis exclaims with enthusiasm, leaping from his position on the couch, making Harry lose some of his balance (he’d been leaning against Louis, after all). The film is nearing its climax – a newly transformed black spandex clad Olivia Newton-John sauntering onto the screen. To Louis, the _You’re The One That I Want_ number is a cinematic masterpiece and he can barely contain his enthusiasm the moment it begins.

Harry can’t stop grinning wide up at Louis, paying little attention to the movie itself, as soon as Louis starts dancing along with the characters on the screen.

“ _C’mon_ ,” says Louis, his hand outstretched for Harry to take. And he does – without a second’s hesitation – being pulled toward Louis in the middle of the living room.

“Who's who?” asks Harry, a little tenderly.

“I’m Danny; you’re Sandy, obviously.” Louis replies confidently before singing along to the lyrics once more. Harry laughs at that, nodding and murmuring, _of course._  

As John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John jive on the Shake Shack; her arms around his neck, his around her waist – Harry and Louis mimic alongside. Louis keeps a serious, pouting expression as he sings the lines off by heart, but Harry is unable to contain the grin (or the blush in his cheeks along with it). He tries to suppress it – wide eyes unbreakably upon Louis, the music all around them in the darkness of the room. But it’s impossible, especially when Louis juts his hip dramatically, holding Harry close. The pair of them in their pyjamas, Harry’s hair a curly mess and Louis deep in concentration –  utterly adorable to any outsider who might look upon the scene. But of course, they are completely alone; giddy in the moment.

Louis performed this number over and over during his time as the lead in his school play. They’d been the best and most exciting times of his life. But compared to this moment – his hands tight at Harry’s side – the younger boy looking up at him as if he is his world … well. It just doesn’t compare.

Every time a new dance movement flashes across the TV, Louis quickly re-enacts it, announcing to the room at large the name of it as he spins Harry (who laughs softly). As Danny pulls Sandy toward him and dips her dramatically, so does Louis with Harry. Mid bow, he glances at the TV where the couple now embrace with their lips locked. He feels his cheeks heating up, embarrassed by how he managed to forget that part of the scene. Or maybe he hadn’t, but the reality of recreating it with Harry is only just dawning on him. The on-screen kiss seems to last an agonizing amount of time. Louis faces Harry again, pulling him to a standing position and letting go the instant the brunette finds his footing.

“… and then I’d kiss you.” Louis mumbles, averting Harry’s eyes in favour of fiddling with his hair. He doesn’t want to face Harry, not wanting to see the younger boy’s reaction. Instead, he slumps back on the couch, making a very poor attempt at seeming casual. “Sorry. That was stupid.” He finally says, the music on the television being the only sound in the moments after they separated. “I used to be a lot better at it, I’ve forgotten the moves.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, sidling up next to Louis on the couch. There’s plenty of room, but he chooses to sit so that their arms brushed together. “No,” affirms Harry quietly, Louis turning to face him the moment he speaks. “You were really good. Amazing.”

Louis can’t stop smiling at that, even as the credits roll.

# …

Being home revitalises Louis like nothing else could. He’s sad to leave – after only two nights in Doncaster – clinging to his mother at the doorstep like a kid heading on a school camp. It’s only until Lottie teases him for being a baby does he let go, pulling faces until Jay has to break up their banter. He’s a grown man, sure, but nothing relaxes Louis quite like his own bed, his own house, and his family for company. Especially when it comes with a side order of Harry Styles’ texts.

A few days later and the band are in London, writing the fifth album with great gusto. Julian and John fell in love with the demo – now called _A.M._ – and are already eager to record it. They’re even happier to hear Jamie was able to convince the boys of the potential of _Drag Me Down_ and are planning to record it by the end of the month. It’s still early days, but Louis can already hear the unique sound coming through in the writing sessions.

Harry and Louis have fallen into a comfortable work dynamic – consisting mainly of sharing looks of amusement whenever Julian gets a little overzealous, or just chatting quietly to themselves while everyone else is busy arguing over a particular verse or chord. They haven’t talked about what they divulged to each other the last time they were alone in the studio, but there’s no reason to. Louis, at least, feels more himself with Harry now, like he doesn’t have to hold back. Well, _almost_. He still has to suppress those damn butterflies every time Harry looks at him deeply; catches himself lost in a daze of admiration while Harry talks. He forces himself to ignore what that could mean, forces himself not to overthink it. He’s just glad to have Harry back, _that’s all_.

“Louis?” Harry’s voice cuts across his thought processes and he almost flinches from surprise. They’re in the studio, packing up their things after a full day of workshopping.

“Hmm? Yeah?”

“Are you doing anything on the weekend?” he asks, looking a little apprehensive (though Louis can’t imagine why). It reminds Louis of when he’d asked Harry the same thing just weeks before, makes him wonder if Harry is having the same thought processes Louis had at the time.

“Nah… don’t think so.” Louis thinks aloud, not picking up what Harry is putting down, “Why?”

“I was wonderin’ if you wanted to…” Harry trails off, clears his throat, and appears to straighten his posture. What is this – a job interview? Louis can’t for the life of him understand why Harry is acting so strange. “Erm, spend time together maybe?”

“Yeah! I’d love to.” Louis replies, a little too quickly and with far too much enthusiasm for him not to feel embarrassed. He tries to backtrack immediately, relaxing his demeanour in a very obvious attempt at casual. “Although, y’know, not many places we can go without being spotted.”

When Harry gives him a questionable look, Louis feels his stomach churn. “Like, the fans’ll go crazy.” He laughs, but the moment he says it he regrets it; the humour falling from his features. _Shut up Louis! You’re just making it worse!_ He could almost kick himself for mentioning the fans. They’ve always been a sensitive topic between himself and Harry. After all, it was the fans reactions to their friendship that got management on their case. It was that pressure that had broken them. His attempt at backpedalling, at seeming less eager, has only resulted in a complete fuck up.

Louis has to look off, rubbing the back of his neck and standing awkwardly in the wake of his remarks. _Stupid_. Completely stupid.

Harry blinks slowly, mulling over Louis’ words. It eats Louis up inside. He’s _really_ not good at being patient.

“So, we won’t get spotted, then.” Harry shrugs. If he felt the sting of Louis’ reminder, he’s doing a good job of hiding it.

Louis just nods curtly, a sheepish sort of smile as if to say _sorry_. “S’where we gonna go?” he asks, easing a little at the calmness on Harry’s features.

“Well…” Harry begins – talking slow, as he always does. If Louis didn’t find him so endearing, so utterly enchanting, he’d be telling Harry to just _spit it out._ “I was supposed to go home before we got back into the studio again, but my flight got delayed and…” he gestures vaguely. “Plans got sort of… blown out of the water.” He pauses a moment, leaving Louis wondering where on earth this sentence is going. “Mum and Gemma are kind of on my case about it.” There’s a smirk at Harry’s lips, yet something undefinable and timid, too – almost as if he’s not sure how to ask Louis what he’s about to ask. “Long story short… I thought, maybe, you’d go home with me a bit? Just for a day or two.”

“To Holmes Chapel?” asks Louis in utter disbelief, though he’s smiling despite himself.

“Yeah...” Harry affirms in a kind of breathy laugh before running his fingers through his hair, “You don’t have to… like, stay over or anythin’,” he adds quickly, mistaking Louis’ surprise for reluctance, “Just thought it’d be good to get away. And, like you said… not many places we can go without anyone seein’ us.”

“No, no, Harry – that’d be sick. Well, I mean, I don’t wanna intrude.”

Harry’s face lights up at Louis’ reassurance, though he tries to stifle it – physically pushing away the smile lines. “You won’t be intruding, I promise.” He says smoothly, swaying a little on the spot.

Louis just nods, feeling a little dizzy if he’s honest. He can’t help the acceleration of his heartbeat the moment he registers what he’s agreeing to. Spending time with Harry. Spending time with Harry _alone._ Spending time with Harry alone _in Holmes Chapel._ It’s not as if Louis hasn’t been to Cheshire before, it’s not even as if he’s not stayed at Harry’s house before either. They used to live together, for Christ sake. But all that was a lifetime ago. And somehow, none of it quite feels like what Harry is suggesting now. It makes Louis excited, makes him nervous. He wishes he’d quit thinking this stuff over too much.

# …

Harry Styles sure was right about one thing: Holmes Chapel really is the place to go when you want to get away. Louis learns fairly quickly that the place is mostly made up of the older folk and children – there’s a definite generation gap, feeling like the only one in his twenties as he walks down the main street. It’s a Sunday, so people are either at Church or getting in some grocery shopping. It’s a small village. Like, _really_ small. Aside from the shopping precinct (that is mostly made up of a supermarket, fish and chips shop and of course the famous bakery Harry won’t shut up about), there’s not much on offer. Growing up here would have been a little claustrophobic for Louis’ liking, but returning for a day trip… it's peaceful, idyllic. Just what he needs.

He’s actually enjoying the serenity of wandering around Harry’s hometown, incognito enough that he doubts anyone will recognise him. They’d arrived around midday; Anne hugging Louis tighter than her own son upon seeing him. Harry feigned jealousy, Louis teasing him about the _real_ reason he brought him to Cheshire (just to butter up Anne so she won’t be mad at Harry for taking so long to visit), Harry chuckling _you got me._ After all of that, Louis had decided a little exploration of the town was in order. Besides, Harry should get time alone with his mum and sister without Louis interfering.

So maybe there’s not a buzzing social life here, but it sure is pretty. And a part of him feels a fondness for the place simply knowing Harry’s childhood was formed here – upon these cobbled grounds, in the bookstore down the road, through the park at the end of the street. He feels oddly closer to Harry just being here.

After an hour he’s pretty much seen all there is to see, and so makes his way back to Harry’s family home. He decides he won’t tell them that he got lost and wasted twenty minutes wandering random side streets. Doesn’t want to see the smug look he knows will be on all of their faces. He’s been to Holmes Chapel before but he’s never been very good with directions, and he knows Harry will rub it in if he finds out.

The door’s unlocked and he debates for a solid minute about whether to knock or just head inside unannounced. He goes with the latter, after cursing inwardly at himself for over-thinking so damn much. He can’t really help it – he’s way out of his depth out here.

Louis can hear the quiet laughter and indecipherable conversation the moment he walks down the hall. He almost doesn’t want to interrupt them, knowing all too well what it's like to be reunited with family after a long time away.

“Speak of the devil!” calls Gemma, the first to look up from the animated conversation the three of them are having in the kitchen. The moment she speaks, Anne and Harry are glancing to Louis by the door. “We were just wondering where you’d got to.”

Louis doesn’t enter the room, just stands awkwardly by the entrance. “Just walking around…” he answers, attempting a casual stance by leaning against the doorway. “Checkin’ out the main street and stuff.” He makes eye contact with Harry, who’s looking up at him with a fondness. There’s a minute difference from when they arrived a few hours ago, but Louis can see Harry’s relaxed muscles, like the strain of the working week has been wiped away. It makes Louis feel warm inside, to see how carefree Harry is when he’s at home.

Harry gets out of his chair and walks toward Louis. “I love Holmes Chapel but even I can’t find things to occupy me for over an hour.”

“Took the scenic route home…” Louis defends, adjusting so that he stands a little taller, and gives Harry a challenging look. Harry raises his eyebrows, pursing his lips to hide the extent of his amusement. Louis thinks if he looks at him like that any longer, he’ll turn into a blushing mess.

They just look at each other for a few seconds before Harry frowns slightly, clears his throat and loses a little bit of his façade. He turns his back on Louis, goes over and begins clearing the plates from the table. Louis can literally feel his heartbeat slow to a normal pace.

“D’you wanna go for a walk or somethin’?” Harry asks in a friendly tone, his back still turned as he puts the plates in the sink. “Or are you all walked-out? From the _scenic route_.” he adds cheekily, craning his neck to see Louis’ reaction.

Louis scoffs a little, rolling his eyes before he folds his arms. He can see Gemma raise her eyebrows at Anne, the pair of them holding something back. Laughter? A question? A snarky remark? He can’t really tell, only that they are keenly observing Harry and Louis’ interaction. It must be strange for them, Louis thinks. The last time Louis was here, the last time he and Harry were good like this… well. It must be years, right? And then Harry just shows up out of the blue with Louis as if no time has passed. They’re taking it well, if they find it odd.

“No, I’m not _all walked-out._ ” Louis retorts, his tone dripping with cynicism – as if to say: _how dare you suggest such a thing?_

Harry dries his hands at the sink with a tea towel, turns back around and looks at Louis with composed kind of joy. “Good.”

# …

“What do you _really_ think of Holmes Chapel?” Harry asks a little while later, beanie on and long curls flying astray in the cool afternoon wind. His hands are shoved in his oversized parker pockets, wellies squelching into freshly rain soaked grounds. It’s spring – but for Cheshire this means blooming gardens and sudden downpours. There’d been one right before Harry and Louis left the house.

Louis mulls that over a second, walking close to Harry, his body stiff against the biting cold. Harry makes it look far more comfortable than Louis actually thinks it is.

“It’s very… picturesque.” He finally says, looking ahead of him but knowing Harry is rolling his eyes at the comment. It’s not lost to either of them that he’s echoing sixteen year old Harry’s X Factor crowd interview. A few strides in the wet grass, a few staggered breaths (which Louis can actually _see_ , it’s _that_ cold, despite Harry claiming it’s ‘not even that bad out’). “I’ve been here before, Haz.” He concedes, waiting for Harry to meet his eyes. The nickname slipped out; he lets it hang there, hoping it isn’t a mistake, that it isn’t too soon for that.

“Yeah… but,” Harry looks down, kicks the muddy grass a little under foot. He shrugs, finds it within himself to meet Louis’ eyes. “Things have changed since then.”

Louis can’t help but feel Harry’s no longer talking about Holmes Chapel. So Louis answers in a way he hopes reassures Harry of what might lurk unspoken in his question. “I haven’t changed my mind since I was last here.” He says, hoping Harry understands he’s not just talking about the beauty of the landscape. “It’s lovely, Harry, really.”

Harry just smiles at that.

After trekking through the wilderness (‘ _It’s just_ lawn _, Louis’_ Harry had laughed at Louis’ choice of descriptor) Harry and Louis find themselves in a particularly secluded place surrounded by overhanging trees. They sit on an old rickety bench by the water's edge – the River Dane, Harry tells him. Louis recognises the old rail bridge cutting across the greenery and over the flowing water. He watches the stream of water, focuses on a bird pecking at the surface from an exposed boulder. If it weren’t so wet, Louis reckons he could nap on the grass it's so calming here.

“I always like to come here when I’m home.” Harry says softly, looking out across the landscape. “Good place to think.”

“Whatcha need to _think_ for?” quips Louis, watching Harry with a cocky smirk.

“Ha-ha. _Very_ funny.” Harry replies monotonously, nudging Louis with his elbow. They don’t have to sit as close as they are; there’s plenty of space on the seat for them to have inches between them if they wanted. But somehow their shoulders brush. Louis tries not to think it's anything more than the need to share body warmth in the cold weather.

There’s a short silence, both of them smiling softly to themselves.

“It's like,” begins Harry again, pulling his hand out of his side pocket to gesture slowly in the air before them, “So much is happening around us all the time. It’s nice to just… stop for a minute.” He pauses, seems to lose gumption a little. He looks over at Louis with a serious expression. “D’get what I mean?”

Louis looks at Harry, nods in agreement, the smile faltering just a fraction when green eyes meet his. It’s not like it hits him, right there in that moment. It’s not like he didn’t know for as long as he can remember. But something about following Harry to Holmes Chapel, something about being stripped of everything that ever stood in their way, something about every second they’ve spent reconnecting and restoring what they lost all those years ago. _Something_ about all of it just dawns on him right there. Sitting with Harry – not _Harry Styles_ _–_ but just Harry. The Harry who’d laugh maniacally at Louis’ stupid jokes, the Harry that would always have something kind and compassionate to say even in the worst of situations, the Harry who’d do anything to make a sad Louis smile: he is still here. A little taller (okay, _way_ taller), with a lot more tattoos, arguably better fashion sense and _somehow_ even more handsome – yes. But he’s still the Harry that Louis fell in love with.

_Never stopped loving._

Oh, yeah. He knew that. _But I guess I_ really _know now_ , Louis thinks.  

There’s no wave of panic really, after that. Just a swell in his chest and a vague sense of dread. Dread because he can’t ever tell Harry.

He lets it nag at the back of his mind, tries to stay present with Harry in that moment, his feet swaying back and forth, bumping Harry’s every few swings. He can’t afford to think about the repercussions of his feelings, at least not right now. He’s just trying to be thankful that he has his best friend back.

“I might ask mum to let you keep those.” Harry remarks, apparently unaware of the overwhelming thoughts swirling in Louis’ mind. He’s pointedly looking down at Louis’ feet, grinning stupidly. Louis would have preferred to have worn Gemma’s plain green wellies, but apparently his feet are too small. Not too small for Anne’s pink leopard print pair, though. He looks, quite frankly, ridiculous. “They suit you.” Harry adds, though he’s laughing like a kid so Louis can’t even make out if that’s exactly what he says.

Louis purses his lips, kicks Harry’s leg purposefully when he swings this time. “Shut up, you bugger.”

“M’serious!” replies Harry giddily, though the look on his face and the tone in his voice is _not_ serious whatsoever. He kicks his boots into Louis’ lightly. The pair of them fiddle around like that for some time, grinning like stupid teenagers. Like the stupid teenagers they used to be together. And it feels surreal, really, Louis thinks. Just being able to have this kind of physicality with Harry again. He spent so long training himself to fight his instincts; to stop himself from reaching out to run his hands through Harry’s curls, or arm tight but tender around his waist – anything that felt natural whenever he was with Harry. Now, with no cameras around and nobody to stop them, Louis doesn’t have to fight that anymore. And it’s nice, it’s really nice.

 

**Flashback: August 2011**

Leeds has changed everything.

The night they arrive home from the music festival, things feel different. At least, for Louis they do. Like everything that had been building between him and Harry in the year they’d known each other is bubbling to the surface. It was something about the carefree atmosphere at Leeds; the way Harry had been joined to Louis’ hip the entire weekend.

It had been a long drive back from the festival location; the pair of them not even bothering to unpack, just throwing their belongings at the bedroom door before stumbling into Louis’ room. Louis turns on the lamp in the corner, though it doesn’t do much to brighten the room before joining Harry on the double bed.

Louis doesn’t need to ask Harry if they are going to share a bed to know they would. More often than not Harry falls asleep in Louis’ bed during a late night FIFA match or TV show marathon, or just creeps under the covers while Louis is half asleep already, wordlessly sidling up to him. It’s just kind of how things are between them, Louis guesses. He certainly hadn’t questioned it – always silently smiling into the dark every time the door creaks open, Harry standing in his boxers tentatively.

This is only heightened now, the intimacy of their friendship having reached a new level over the weekend. They’d clutched one another’s hands whenever they could, drunken Harry burying his head into Louis’ neck, causing a shiver to go down Louis’ spine. It hadn’t felt like simple drunken antics. Especially not when the alcohol started to wear off and the boys lay in their tent, alone, Louis heartbeat thudding like crazy at the closeness – he’d felt Harry’s breath against his cheek so vividly, that even now as they laugh on his bed together can he feel it.  

“What’s that song again? The one we love?” Louis asks into the dimness of the room, lying on his back beside Harry, staring up at the ceiling.

“ _Sweet Disposition_.” Harry quickly supplies, turning his head to face Louis, smiling fondly.

“Yeah, that’s the one! _Sweet Disposition_ .” Louis pulls himself up to a sitting position, leaping off the bed to grab his phone. He becomes a bundle of energy the moment the idea comes to mind – searching the song into Google and pressing play. He turns it up as loud as his phone can go before jumping back onto the bed beside Harry. He feels a surge in his heart at the memory of himself and Harry dancing wildly and freely in the grass, _Sweet Disposition_ playing loud and all encompassing. It’s his favourite song now, Louis thinks.

“ _A moment! A love! A dream, a laugh!_ ” blurts Louis sing-song, completely off key in his enthusiasm and silliness. He keeps singing, a huge grin on his face while Harry beams, joining in.

> _A kiss, a cry,_
> 
> _Our rights, our wrongs,_
> 
> _A moment, a love, a dream, a laugh_

“ _So stay there_ ,” sings the voice through the phone speakers, Louis echoing it loudly and obnoxiously. “ _‘Cause I’ll be comin’ over_ ,” His hands balled into fists dramatically, deliberately attempting to make Harry laugh (and it works).

“ _While our blood’s still young!_ ” Harry sings, though by now the pair of them are just yelling joyously, really. They are leaning into each other, bellowing the lyrics without a care in the world, jumping slightly on the springs of the mattress beneath them.

Louis can barely hear the original music over their laughing and singing, but he doesn’t care, because he’s just _so goddamn_ happy.

> _It’s so young, it runs…_

“WON’T STOP TILL WE SURRENDER!” Louis yells over Harry and over the music, too enthusiastic to know he got the lyrics wrong.

Harry lets out a cackling laughter, falling back against the pillow, clutching his chest. “No!” he exclaims, all squinty eyed and swaying side to side a little. When he finally gains Louis’ attention – half-way through belting the lyrics, frowning down at his best friend, Harry elaborates, “It’s not… it’s not ‘won’t stop till we surrender’,” he pauses, catching his breath, “It’s ‘won’t stop til’ it's over, won’t stop to surrender’.”

“Bullshit!” retorts Louis an octave higher than usual, immediately on the defence. He shuffles closer to Harry, grabbing his phone close, the music still playing.

“ _It is!_ ” Harry argues, shaking his head with his eyes closed and mouth stretched in an enormous grin, “Just _listen_ next time!”

So Louis does what Harry says, rather impatiently, listening for the chorus to come around again. When it does, Louis collapses back in defeat, flopping into the pillow next to Harry.

“Fine, I guess you’re right.” He admits, pouting and folding his arms melodramatically.

The music sounds quieter now, muffled by the blankets where Louis had dropped it.

“But…” and Harry has to compose himself before continuing, though his grin remains plastered on his face. Now he lays on his side, watching Louis intently. “But I like your version better.” He compliments, a kind of bashfulness all over him.

The atmosphere shifts the moment he speaks – like everything isn’t so funny anymore. The two boys lay incredibly close, nothing but the soft music playing in the background.

Louis knows that if he does this, if he takes that leap of faith he’s been teetering on the edge of for the past several months, there’ll be no turning back. That no matter how hard he tries to brush away the electricity in their every touch, or write off their devotion to one another as the media labelled ‘bromance’ and nothing more – it will all be undeniable.

His breath hitches in his throat and he feels dizzy just entertaining the idea. “If…” he begins, gulping dry. _Say it, just say it_. Harry’s eyes watch, wide and searching, lips parted a fraction. Louis lets his attention drop to them for a fleeting second. “If you don’t move, I’m going to kiss you.”

And Harry doesn’t. In fact, he stays impossibly still – his eyes locked with Louis’ expectantly, biting his bottom lip ever so slightly from nerves. Louis swears he could look into those eyes for the rest of his life and be content. It isn’t just the beauty of them – the light green, speckled with brown – but what Louis feels when he looks into them. Because looking into Harry’s eyes brings butterflies to Louis’ stomach, turns his world upside down and makes him question everything he knows about himself, and about what love is supposed to look like. Looking into Harry’s eyes now – in the wake of what Louis has just said – there’s nothing but reassurance and unconditional love looking back at him. Louis knows this is his chance, knows Harry is telling him without words he wants it too.

> _A kiss, a cry_
> 
> _Our rights_
> 
> _Our wrongs_
> 
> _A moment, a love_
> 
> _A dream, a laugh_

Louis doesn’t have a coherent thought after that – just leaning in, closing the space between himself and Harry. All he feels is soft lips against his own, tentative and new; every fibre of his being alight. Kissing Harry is warm; it floods his veins with calmness and adrenaline all at once. Like he could run a thousand miles, or just lie there with Harry for hours. Forever, even. It’s slow and gentle; Louis’ hand finding its way to rest on Harry’s cheek, Harry in turn leaning into the kiss with a soft fervour. Louis can’t remember ever feeling like this before. Not with anyone. It’s the kind of feeling that leaves him pining for more, the kind that he’ll feel on his lips for days after.

When they finally pull apart – Louis’ forehead resting against Harry’s – there aren’t any words to be said. All Louis can think is: _why the hell hadn’t they done this sooner?_ What happened between them is like a dream to Louis and judging by the dazed, inexplicably happy look on Harry’s face, it is for him too.

# …

After a while, it gets a little too cold out at the River Dane – even by Harry’s standards – and the two decide to head back home. The walk back at dusk is filled with small conversation, Louis’ teeth chattering and Harry shaking his head to stop from laughing. Once they’ve left the main street, all there is, is high hedges and the glow of lights from the windows of the houses they pass. It’s quiet – completely empty – and they walk a little closer to one another, arms brushing. Neither address it, Louis not wanting to admit that the fear of being spotted is still so prominent in his mind.

“If you were a gentleman, you’d give me your jacket.” Louis says with snark after having enough of Harry’s laughter at his expense. But this just makes Harry chuckle more, looping his arm around Louis’ shoulders and rubbing his hand up and down Louis’ arm in an attempt to warm him up. Louis goes rigid at the contact, completely unable to stop himself, though he tries to feign a devil-may-care attitude. He’s sure he’s missed the mark, because Harry’s smile falters a little and he drops his arm immediately – shoving his hand back into his jacket pocket.

Louis immediately wishes he could fix it, teeters on the verge of speech before shutting his mouth and looking down at his feet. It isn’t as if they have never touched like that before. In fact, the _whole day_ had been filled with little nudges and endearingly intimate moments. But it’s starting to get a little overwhelming for Louis. Like he isn’t sure what he’ll do if Harry touches him again, not sure if he trusts himself not to make a fool of himself. But at the same time he doesn’t want Harry to stop, wants to push things between them as far as they can go – maybe so far until it’s too late to return from it. Louis has no idea what would happen to their friendship if that were to happen, decides right then and there to stop thinking about Harry like that.

 _Stop it. You fucking idiot. Don’t mess this up._  

# …

Louis isn’t going to stay the night. At least that’s what he tells himself anyway. But after finding it impossible to refuse Anne’s offer to stay for dinner and subsequently winding up in the living room with Gemma and Harry watching TV; it becomes a little too late to bail. And he has to admit – even to himself, if not to anyone else (God forbid) – that he’s enjoying himself a little too much to call it a night just yet. Entertaining the idea of seeing Harry in the morning, that same sleepy voice he had on the phone in the club… well, it’s enough to make Louis do just about anything in order to hear it.

Before Anne and Robin head to bed, she tells him the spare bed is made up; without him even having to say that he’s changed his mind. He just nods and thanks her, though Anne insists it’s no trouble. He wonders if she knows how he feels, if she can sense it every time he looks at Harry. He must be so obvious – he can’t hide it even if he tried. It’s like it used to be, all those years ago in interviews and on stage. He’s hopelessly gone for Harry. And coming here has only made it worse.

“I’m gonna sleep.” Gemma says over the TV. She’s lying on the couch with her feet all over Harry’s lap, but he doesn’t seem to mind the invasion of his personal space. It actually appears to be a common occurrence in the Styles family, Louis is discovering (or rather, re-discovering). For example, Gemma likes to throw cheese Wotsits at Harry’s face to get him to shut up every time he points out a historical inaccuracy in the period drama they’re watching.

Gemma pulls herself up off the couch and stretches. “Alright, you two,” she says with a yawn. “Stay out of trouble, will ya?”

“Yes, _Mum_.” Harry responds in as dreary a tone as he can manage.

“Are you seeing this, Tomlinson?” she says in a slightly higher octave and Louis is alarmed by the similarities she she shares with Anne. She’s looking over at him with melodramatic exasperation. “The _attitude_ he gives me?”

“Absolute disgrace.” Louis offers, eliciting a scowl from Harry that only makes Louis laugh dryly.

“I thought you were going to _bed_ , Gem?” interrupts Harry, smirking a little but giving his sister a challenging look.

“Alright, alright – I’m going,” she says, eyebrows raised, “Goodnight, little brother.” she says, approaching Harry from the back of the couch and leaning over from behind to hug him.

“G’night, big sister.” Harry replies, heaving a sort of laboured squeal, pretending his sister’s hug is too tight. He laughs at his own humour, gripping her arms close to his chest; the dimpled grin on his face making those butterflies stir in Louis’ stomach again.

“And goodnight, Louis.” Gemma says once she’s pulls away, heading for the stairs, “Good to see you again.”

“Yeah, you too. Goodnight, Gemma.” Louis replies, a little dumbfounded. The sincerity in the remark catching him off guard a little. It makes him realise just how nice it really is to be around Harry’s family after all these years.

There’s a short silence in Gemma’s wake, Louis chewing the inside of his cheek a little while he tries to concentrate on the TV. He fails, glancing at Harry within seconds. Harry doesn’t say anything, just pats the empty space besides him on the couch with an imploring look. It makes Louis laugh a little and he heaves a sigh, rolling his eyes; pretending that having to move to sit with Harry is a complete inconvenience to him.

“You know what this reminds me of?” says Harry after Louis relaxes into the couch next to him. It’s much more comfortable than the chair he’d been occupying to the side of the room. Nothing to do with the fact that Harry’s sitting with him, no way.

“What?” Louis prompts, turning his attention away from the show they are watching. It’s nowhere near as interesting as Harry talking.

“It reminds me of when we used to have sleepovers. Do you remember that?”

“Course I do,” Louis says, a little wounded to think Harry could imagine him ever forgetting, “God, that feels like a lifetime ago,” He adds in a husky sort of nostalgia, “We were _so young_.”

“And, like…” Harry begins, readjusting his position on the couch so that his body is angled toward Louis; opening, inviting. “We used to think we were such rebels,” he says affectionately, looking off in a dazed thought process. His eyes refocus, turning to Louis with a goofy sort of grin, “Just because we went to bed after eleven.”

Louis laughs, feeling a strange combination of embarrassed and chuffed at the reminder. “Thought we were _it._ Absolute _pinnacle_ of cool.”

“Mum’d come down and yell at us to turn the TV down,” Harry says, grinning at the memory, “We’d give her cheek about it every time.”

“Bloody handful we must’ve been.” Louis says, shaking his head at the memory, but unable to contain the fond smile from spreading across his face. The memory of himself at nineteen is embarrassing, sure, but thinking of young Harry just makes Louis’ heart swell with pride. “What about when we moved in together? God, talk about bein’ terrors!” Louis exclaims with a laugh. “Didn’t we break one of the windows playing dodge ball in the house?”

“ _We did!_ ” Harry laughs, almost squealing the words in the high pitched tone. His eyes squint shut and he slaps his own knee at the hilarity of the memory. It’s a laugh Louis almost forgot Harry had. The wide mouth, silly cackle; the one Louis remembers from when he first made Harry laugh back in the X Factor days. It’s like seeing that Harry here now, just for a flash, and then he’s 21 again – looking wiser and more handsome. “The landlord _hated_ us,” says Harry warmly. “When we moved out… I swear he had a party to celebrate.”

“Probably needed to, as well!” Louis says, finding it impossible to keep a straight face when he’s watching Harry grin like this. He’s egged on by it though, wanting to keep Harry laughing for as long as he can. “The stress we caused ‘em must’ve taken years off his life, poor guy.”

Harry leans back against the couch, his laughter turning into a sigh and fading into silence. But even though neither of them are talking anymore, even though the moment has seemingly passed, the ghost of a smile is still etched on both of their faces.

“God… dunno how our parents let us move in together in the first place.” Louis says, staring off; just letting his mind wander into memories of him and Harry when they were younger. “We didn’t even know each other!” Louis exclaims. “What was it – five months or somethin’ before we were livin’ together?”

“Yeah, something like that. But I knew straight away that I liked you.” Harry states, making Louis feel oddly on edge. The thought of sixteen year old Harry thinking the world of Louis makes him nauseous. _What does he think of me now?_ Louis wishes he had the guts to just ask. “I remember when we met and I thought, he’s… loud.” Harry says matter-of-factly, though a smile tugs at his lips. Louis lets out a single bark of laughter, causing the grin to widen on Harry’s face. “Really loud. I thought: be careful with that one.”

“Oh great, thanks.” Louis retorts sarcastically.

“No, but I thought you were funny, too. I used to think you were too cool for me to hang out with.”

“Turns out I’m just a loser.” Louis supplies, which makes Harry roll his eyes. He jokes so that he can avoid the quickening heart beat at the way Harry talks about him, focuses a little too hard on appearing uncaring. “I thought you were… y’know, about.” Louis says vaguely, trying not to give himself away.

Harry just frowns. “That’s very heartfelt, Louis, thank you.”

“No, but, c’mon,” Louis pleads, laughing a little, “I thought… of course I thought you were great. Like this shy, curly haired kid with a killer voice. I was sure you were gonna win, actually.”

Harry beams at Louis’ words, a small appreciative kind of smile that makes Louis unable to maintain eye contact. _Jesus Christ, was it a mistake to come to Holmes Chapel?_

“Did you think…” Harry says suddenly, the tone in his voice no longer light. He runs a hand through his messy hair, frowns a little. “Back then… did you think that we’d get here?”

“What, on this couch? Funny enough, no.”

Harry shoots him a look, but can’t stop the lopsided smirk from growing on his face. “Idiot,” He says immaturely, “You know what I mean.”

Louis does. He knows Harry is talking about the X Factor and about their success as a band. He knows he’s talking about everything that has lead them to this point in their lives – writing their fifth album and a month away from their world tour. But with that, Louis also knows he’s talking about the bad stuff, too. About how Zayn won’t be there. About how long it took for him and Harry to find each other again. Louis could never have known things would be this way.

“It’s crazy…” he begins, his voice a little raspy, “I literally had no idea, y’know with the X Factor… where that would put us.”

“Me neither.”

“Gets me head spinnin’ a bit when I think about it, actually,” Louis says, a kind of weary laugh escaping him, “Where would we even be if we weren’t put into the band?”

“I’d probably still be working at the bakery.” Harry says, managing to keep his frown so it takes a second for Louis to catch onto his dry humour.

“Heaven forbid.” Louis snorts.

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry remarks in a wounded tone, “I was an excellent baker.”

“All I’m saying is… don’t quit your day job.”

Harry has to dip his head forward at that comment, allowing his hair to fall into his vision – effectively hiding the grin on his face. When he looks back up at Louis – fingers pushing his hair out of his face – he’s scrunching his nose to suppress the smile. Louis can’t keep his eyes off him, completely lost in the way Harry’s looking at him.

“We would never have met.” Harry says after a moment. He’s quiet, eyes glassy as he bites on his lower lip. It’s a look that makes Louis’ heartache. He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t know Harry Styles.

“Lucky they put us in a band together then.” Louis says, a hint of humour in the delivery though he means every word. And even though Louis attempts to make it sound light, it falls short, the sentiment behind it seeping into the room. Louis doesn’t mind, just this once – being vulnerable to Harry. Not when the look on Harry’s face shows him how deeply he’s moved by it.

“Yeah,” Harry replies tenderly, a smile growing at his lips, “Lucky.”

# …

The first thing Louis thinks when he wakes up the next morning is what an absurdly good sleep he had. The second thing he thinks is:  _oh fuck._

The disorientation of where he is, of _who_ he’s with – doesn’t last long. And as Louis stirs, squinting around in the dark of the living room, he becomes acutely aware he is not alone. Because _of course_ the reason he slept so well is because he’s with Harry. _Shit. Fucking shit._ How the fucking hell did that happen?

He knows how. He thinks back to last night, how close they’d been on the couch watching TV, though hardly focusing on anything but each other. It had been so intoxicating for Louis, just slouching against the cushions casually with Harry, reminiscing. As the night went on and both fought against sleep, things got a little hazy. Louis remembers not wanting to leave Harry’s side, not wanting to go upstairs and sleep alone in the spare room. It was selfish, Louis knows that. But he could _hardly_ have predicted the current situation: he’s wedged between the wall of the couch and Harry. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pair of them have eased into a _very_ compromising position – Louis’ head leaning into Harry’s chest, almost resting on him, Harry’s arm wrapped around Louis lazily.

_Curse this fucking couch. Why is it so bloody small anyway?_

Louis stays as still as possible, surprised the stirring he already made hasn’t woken Harry yet. He can feel the rise and fall of Harry’s chest beneath him; completely unaware, completely at peace. Still a heavy sleeper, Louis guesses. Some things don’t change.

He nearly wishes he hadn’t woken up so he could savour the blissfully intimate moment instead of panic about how on Earth he’s meant to get out of it. If he weren’t so hyperaware of how terrifying this situation is, he’d be able to admit how comfortable it is in Harry’s arms. Because _God_ is it everything Louis ever imagined. Everything he remembers it used to be.

Jesus Christ. Get out. Get out _now._

So he does. It takes several painstakingly slow minutes – Louis holding his breath as he wiggles out from under Harry’s hold, freezing every time the brunette stirs sleepily. But Harry doesn’t wake up. Not even when Louis rising from the couch and thudding onto the floorboards upsets his equilibrium, causing him to toss and turn – he just lies still again. Louis lets out a relieved sigh, unable to stop himself from smiling down affectionately at the sight of the soundless Harry. What a _fucking_ mess he’s gotten himself into.

Louis stretches silently, feeling the aches and stiffness in his neck from the tight couch space. And then he hears something – the sound of the kettle boiling in the next room. Someone else is awake. As if the situation can’t get any more embarrassing. _Fucking excellent._

He shuffles into the kitchen, spots Anne by the sink making her breakfast. She turns around the minute he enters the room.

“Oh!” she gasps, “Sorry, love, gave me a fright,” She laughs at that, returning her attention to the hot water she’s now pouring, “D’you want a cuppa, love?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at him, “I wasn’t going to wake you, but since you’re up.”

“Yeah I would, actually … thanks, Anne.”

“You sleep alright, dear? Couch looked a bit cramped.” She chuckles, though the remark makes Louis tense. Luckily she’s got her back to him, or she’d see the panic flash across his face. She sounds pretty relaxed, but Louis knows there’s no way she’s not curious to know what it could mean. _Get in line,_ Louis thinks bitterly.

“Yeah,” he answers a little uneasily, “Thought I could stay awake ‘til the end of the movie, guess I was more tired than I thought.” He forces the casual lie a little too hard, knows the second he says it that he must appear utterly unconvincing.

Anne turns to face him, looks on the verge of speaking before her gaze flickers past Louis. “Harry, darling, you’re up.”

Louis whips around, internally cursing out how completely uncool he’s behaving. Harry stands at the doorway, rubbing his eyes sluggishly. His hair is a bedridden mess and his clothes are wrinkled from sleeping on the couch. But he looks oddly refreshed and undeniably cute.

“Heard some commotion,” Harry mumbles lazily, the humour almost undetectable. Anne scoffs, returns to what she’s doing by the kitchen table top. Harry smirks a little, drops his hand from his eyes and looks over at Louis. “Mornin’, Lou.”

“Morning, Harold.” Louis says clearly, trying his very best at being his usual teasing self. It’s really not working.

“Your hair’s a mess.” Harry laughs groggily, gesturing vaguely at Louis’ tuffs of hair sticking up in random directions.

“Looked in the mirror lately?” Louis retorts easily, though entirely playful. Harry just laughs tiredly, walks past Louis and over to his mother.

“Um,” begins Louis awkwardly interrupting Anne and Harry’s conversation. He’s still in the corner of the room, edging back a little, “Actually, Anne, don’t worry about that tea.” Harry frowns and so does Anne. “I, um, I should really be headin’ home, yeah?” He elaborates, feeling his heart rate increasing at the look he’s receiving from Harry and Anne alike. “Wasn’t expectin’ to stay the night and I’ve got a lot to get done before work tomorrow, so…”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Anne says empathetically, “Well, come back soon. It’s lovely to have you around.”

“Yeah, will do. Thanks, uh, for ‘avin’ me.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Harry offers, still frowning slightly.

Once they’re at the front door, Harry pulls it shut behind him and leans against it. He doesn’t say anything, just stands while Louis turns back to face him, lingering at the front steps.

“I’m really glad you came this weekend.” Harry says in a deep, slow voice. The intensity of his expression makes Louis feel like he shouldn’t be looking him in the eye.

“Yeah… yeah, me too. It was loads of fun.” And he thinks that’s it, wants to leave as fast as he can. Because maybe if he runs, he doesn’t have to face how he feels. Doesn’t have to face the heartache it’ll bring.

But it isn’t, because Harry unfolds his arms and strides toward Louis. Before Louis can process the close proximity, Harry’s pulling him into a hug. Louis halts a second before reciprocating, relaxing into the contact. He feels at home.

“I’m really happy we’re friends again,” Harry says into Louis’ neck. _Friends._ The word shouldn’t bring a pang to Louis’ chest, but it does, “I missed you.”

Louis swears he feels his heart constrict at the words, closing his eyes and swaying into the hug. “I missed you too, Harry. _So_ _much_.”

They stay like that a moment longer before they finally pull apart, clearing throats and fiddling with their hair. Harry stays at the door to watch Louis leave, waves as the car pulls away. When the car is at a safe distance, Louis pulls over and just sits in a foggy daze. Holmes Chapel was meant to help them bond and reconnect, not make Louis fall deeper in love. Harry’s words echo in his mind – _we’re friends again._

_Friends. Friends. Friends._

And he knows that no matter how many times he repeats the word in his mind, it won’t change the fact that he’ll always want more with Harry.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I tend to think veterans in the fandom aren't huge fans of old references, but I'm new here and a chance to incorporate Leeds was too hard to resist. So... I hope I pulled off the Sweet Disposition thing at least a little...? Yes? No? 
> 
> Also, I don't know if anyone was paying attention but Saturday/Sunday has sort of been my goal day for uploading - but I'm throwing that out the window pretty early here to say I don't want to force myself to stick to a gruelling schedule. Plus, I've been hit with a pretty terrible bout of writers block (thanks Uni for being so damn overwhelming!) but I've written several chapters in advance so it shouldn't affect regular uploads _too_ much. 
> 
> What a ramble, anyway here's the reference list:
> 
> • [Louis failing his A Levels the first time](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Tomlinson#Early_life)  
> • [Zayn thanking One Direction in his speech](http://www.billboard.com/articles/columns/pop-shop/6538680/watch-zayn-malik-thank-one-direction-at-first-public-appearance-asian-awards) (and winning the award)  
> • Louis telling Lottie "it just kind of happened", [loosely references this](http://www.sugarscape.com/lads/news/a710326/one-directions-harry-styles-on-larry-stylinson-it-just-sort-of-happened/)  
> • [Harry and Louis re-enacting the Grease dance](http://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/149912022235/imprettylittleliars-larry-and-grease)  
> • And you could probably guess, the scene Louis and Harry are watching is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vO1_mrGcEo?) (though I took some artistic liberties with the ‘and then we’d kiss’ part of the dance routine. I figured the stage production version Louis did was a little different from the film anyway!)  
> • We all know Leeds happened! We know Harry got the ‘won’t stop til’ we surrender’ tattoo and that it’s an alteration of the song he saw live with Louis at Leeds. If you really wanna go there, check out [this masterlist](http://alarrytale.tumblr.com/post/66198789041/louis-and-harry-at-leeds-festival-2011-a%0A)  
> • “He’s about” (this happens in the London Session with James Corden, but I can’t remember where exactly – it’s when James asks Louis his first impression of Harry)  
> • ["Louis is... loud."](http://quitespecial.tumblr.com/post/82598320246/x)


	5. Something Great

_‘The script was written and I could not change a thing. I want to rip it all to shreds and start again. One day I’ll come into your world and get it right. I’ll say we’re better off together here tonight.’_

The fact that Harry and Louis curled up against each other once they fell asleep, limbs entangled, would have remained a mystery to Harry if not for his mother. She questions him about it the moment Louis leaves. He’s spooning cereal into his mouth when she does (Honey Shreddies – the kitchen is always stocked with his favourite whenever he comes home), so he can’t fully react the way he wants to.

“Harry, dear,” she begins in that tone Harry knows can’t be good. It’s the way she introduces anything sensitive she needs to tell him, all tentative and gentle but clearly uneasy, “Why didn’t you tell me about you and Louis?”

Harry swears he would’ve choked on his mouthful if he hadn’t already swallowed.

“Me and Louis?” he asks, spoon still raised and mouth agape. He thinks stupidly of their friendship – that maybe Anne just didn’t expect for the two of them to be so close so quickly again. But he knows from the look on her face that that can’t be it.

“Did you think I wouldn’t approve?” Her face is pained when she says this, like just voicing the idea is against her entire belief system. It’s endearing, Harry thinks, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s so, _so_ wrong. “Because you know I support you and I’ve always loved Louis.”

“Hold on a minute, Mum,” he cuts across her speech, stopping her before she can say anything that’ll embarrass him, “Me and Louis _what?_ ” He drops his spoon in his bowl and shifts uncomfortably in his chair before leaning against the table top, arms folded. He hopes he’s wrong, that he’s just misinterpreted her words.

Anne appears taken aback at that, apparently having no notion that she could have misconstrued things. He loves his mother, but she really does have a knack for that Mother-Knows-Best complex.

“You and Louis,” she reiterates, though this time with a little less conviction, “In a relationship.” She states, though it’s almost a question in the way her voice rises at the end.

Is he really that obvious? Can Louis see it too?

_Oh, god no._

“A what?” he repeats, though he heard her perfectly well, “No, Mum,” he begins awkwardly, frowning intently at her. He can’t hide the shock that registers on his features, nor the glowing red in his cheeks as an afterthought. “We’re not– Mum, you’ve got it completely wrong.”

“Have I?” she quickly asks, looking apologetic and a little abashed at the conclusion she drew. “I’m sorry love,” she continues, heaving a sigh as if already exhausted by the day’s antics (it’s barely ten in the morning), “You looked very cosy on the couch this morning, that’s all, and the way you were around each other all day–” she stops herself, gives Harry a kind of empathetic, saddened smile. A shrug of sorts, as if to say, _my mistake._

Harry feels his stomach squirm at her words, sure that his cheeks are red with embarrassment. He can’t say he’s surprised that Anne is curious. It’s not every day that Harry brings a boy home with him. But Louis isn’t just any boy – he’s… well. And Louis used to live with Harry, for goodness sake. He knows he should have explained the situation to his mum, in doing that though, it means explaining why they needed to mend their friendship in the first place… it means explaining _everything_. All of it. And Harry just can’t do that.  

“… On the couch?” Harry prompts after a short silence, not even fooling himself with his attempt at nonchalance. His mind is racing in the seconds after he asks her – but he can’t remember anything happening on the couch. All he knows is how hard he fought against sleep so that he could savour that time with Louis. That at some point his mind’s desire to stay awake with Louis for hours upon hours was outdone by his body’s need to rest. And that in the morning he woke alone. He simply drew the logical conclusion: that after falling asleep Louis went upstairs to sleep in the spare bed.

Unless he didn’t.

“You didn’t realise?” Anne asks softly, as if breaking bad news.

Harry just frowns at her, feeling a little frustrated. _Cosy on the couch._ He doesn’t even know what that’s supposed to mean, but there’s no way he’s going to prompt his _Mum_ about it. He shares a lot with his mother, always has, but this is not a family matter. It’s personal. It’s his heart. And if Louis and Harry had accidentally embraced in their sleep, then waking up alone – Louis rushing to leave with the poorest excuses Harry has ever heard – then it must mean Louis doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want Harry to know anything happened between them at all. It hurts. That’s an understatement. But just as Harry knew with Louis’ drunken phone call – he knows now to respect his friend enough not to bring it up.

“There’s nothing going on,” Harry finally says, unable to hide the bitterness. He hopes it’s masked by the groggy sleepiness in his voice, though, “We’re just friends.”

“Okay, love,” Anne says gently, effectively ending the discussion. Still, just because they’ve stopped talking about it, just because Robin comes in not long after and conversation shifts to trivial, easy things – it doesn’t mean Harry’s forgotten.

# …

The early May weather is good for Harry’s writing muse. It’s dreary, sure – the meteorologist on the TV is calling it the coldest May in the U.K. since 1996. But the British can be pretty dramatic, Harry thinks, and a little rain never hurt anybody. It puts a bit of a damper on the usual workshop routine, though; the boys having to abandon Jamie’s back porch for something with a little more shelter. Aside from that, writing on the fifth album continues unaffected. When Harry isn’t in the studio, he’s scribbling notes into his leather notebook, his mind constantly thinking of new lyrics. It’s not enough to show anyone yet, though – just tangents and one liners that spring to him in the shower or during lunch.

“And remember,” begins Harry, pointing at Julian as he heads for the door. They’ve been writing and recording demos for a few hours. Liam is standing on the patio talking to someone on the phone, Niall’s gone to grab a snack from the kitchen and Louis… Harry actually isn’t sure. “Trumpets in _Olivia_.” He pauses to emphasise the importance of the statement. The song has been in workshop for the week so far and it’s almost perfect. Almost. Harry knows what’ll make it great, though. “Must have. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Okay, okay,” Julian laughs, shaking his head a little. Needless to say, the two of them have different opinions about the chorus instrumentals, “We’ll see.”

“No,” Harry raises his eyebrows, firmly pointing again at Julian with determination. There’s a hint of smile lines at his eyes that give him away, “Not, ‘we’ll see’. ‘ _Yes_ , _Mister Styles_ ,’” he says coolly, though entirely jesting (but not about the trumpets part, he really does want those).

Harry steps backward, bumping into someone in the hallway entrance without realising. When he turns, he’s met with Louis, whose hand hovers across Harry’s arm in response to the incident, raising his eyebrows slightly. Harry’s caught so completely off guard that his mumbled apology rather pathetic. Louis just laughs lightly though, moving past Harry and further into the room.

“Bein’ a diva again, are ya?” chimes Louis, turning to face Harry as he fiddles with his hair.

Harry doesn’t understand immediately – and it must be evident on his face, because Louis smirks.

“‘Mister Styles’.” He repeats, looking amused.

“He won’t let me put trumpets in the _Olivia_ chorus.” Harry says, up in arms, gesturing dramatically at Julian by Louis’ side. Louis glances at Julian, looks back at Harry with a contained amusement.

“ _Aw, come on!_ ” Louis exclaims, looking at Julian who shakes his head, acting like he always does when the boys get childish, “That’d be sick! Can you imagine?” he stops talking to play an invisible trumpet, complete with mouthing the noises for the chorus to _Olivia_. It makes Harry grin wide, laugh even, though he’s trying not to show how affected he is by Louis.

“See!” Harry exclaims, gesturing from Louis to Julian, the grin wide on his face, “Exactly!”

Julian just looks between them pointedly, almost baffled even now by the blossoming closeness between them. Seems everyone has an opinion on it, whether they voice it or not.

“No?” Louis asks, watching Julian’s expression closely. When Julian says nothing, simply shakes his head with a little laugh, Louis turns back to Harry. He shrugs, defeated. “Win some, you lose some,” he says, Julian within earshot. The moment Julian goes to speak to Jamie though, Louis leans over to Harry to murmur, “We’ll wear ‘em down, Harold.”

Harry just looks at Louis, grinning lopsidedly before running a hand through his tangled hair. He hopes to god that his eyes don’t give him away. Because they haven’t really talked about Holmes Chapel. Well, not the part that is nagging at the back of Harry’s mind any way. Louis remarks pretty openly about how fun their little day trip had been – even in front of Niall and Liam who’ve done a good job at staying quiet about the whole thing. It’s likely they aren’t reading into every interaction between Harry and Louis as closely as Harry himself is.

He knows he should just drop it. Nothing is bad between them, except for the occasional weird energy (though he’s sure it’s due to his own inability to hide his affections). They push through it mostly, Louis avoiding anything too awkward with a boastful joke. Laughing always distracts from tension. And when Louis is happy, Harry can’t help but be that way too. Even if his heart does ache a little.

It’s not long before Harry is struck with inspiration again. Only this time it isn’t the poetically miserable weather that brings it on. It’s when he catches himself eying Louis for what feels like the hundredth time today alone. Except he’s not the only one who catches him – Louis meets his eyes, smiling softly before fidgeting awkwardly with his hair. Harry goes pink immediately, makes a mental note to just _stop staring like a weirdo._ By the time he’s home, though, the lyrics are fully formed in his mind.

> _Pay attention, I hope that you listen ‘cause I let my guard down_
> 
> _Right now I’m completely defenceless_

He frowns down at the scribbled line in his notebook and is overcome by the memory of Louis’ blue eyes meeting his stare. It always feels like Louis sees something that no one else can. Like Harry isn’t all of himself until Louis is there.

> _For your eyes only_

Harry taps the pen against the paper lightly, looking at the four words to his heart. It’s been a long time since he wrote about Louis and he’s not sure it’ll amount to anything, can’t fathom whether a fully fledged song can be made of it. He isn’t even sure if he wants it to – if he can bare his soul that way. But the lines are written, and he feels like the load of his feelings is lightened because of it.

He’ll return to the lyrics later.

# …

All four of them are in the studio when Louis finds the article. It’s not common for any of them to read up on celebrity gossip columns, knowing all too well the lies that are fed through them. The rumours are harder to ignore when they involve your ex-band mate, though.

The headline reads in bold black: ‘Zayn Malik confirms solo music career with DJ and friend Naughty Boy’. The gist of the story is clear to Harry just from the title – that his statement to the public (and to the boys) about wanting to be a ‘normal 22-year-old guy’ was a lie.

“Has anyone actually talked to him?” Niall asks, managing to remain collected and calm while Louis fumes down at his phone. As always happens at a certain point into the working day, they’ve lost track of their focus.

Liam frowns as he thinks how to answer.

“Yeah, a bit.” He finally says, knowing it’s a touchy subject with all of them.

Harry hasn’t talked to Zayn and he’s certain Louis hasn’t. The fact that Niall brought it up, too, suggests that he hasn’t gone out of his way to remain in contact. “Not about work, though.”

“Bloody coward.” Louis spits, turning off his phone and throwing it onto the couch carelessly. Harry is sure Louis wouldn’t be so angry if it weren’t for the fact that Zayn is collaborating with Naughty Boy. They were friends before Zayn ever told them he was leaving and he always denied the rumours (started by Naughty Boy himself) that he was writing music with him behind the scenes. Harry had always trusted him – they all had. He’d always thought that side projects didn’t have to mean anything detrimental for the band. That is until Zayn really did leave.

So knowing that Naughty Boy and Zayn are writing together _now_ – Harry wonders if it means things were in the works even last year. It’s not an idea he really is fond of, that’s for sure. None of them are.

“Louis, I don’t think it was like that.” Liam defends, looking personally offended by the comment.

“Yeah, sure it wasn’t.”

Louis is a bundle of negative energy, Harry can tell; by the way he’s not stopped moving since he found the article; hands balled into fists and jaw clenched. It makes Harry nervous – like he’s trying to wrap his head around what he can say to calm the situation. The truth is that he knows Louis’ reaction is completely fair.

“You know it wasn’t fun for him like it is for us.” Harry finally vocalises, calmly and slowly, in the hopes that his commanding aura will help diffuse the ticking time bomb. Louis looks over at Harry, who stands with one arm folded across his chest, the fingers of the other covering his mouth – watching the conversation with stern concentration.

“He’s going _solo_.” Louis says pointedly, almost ignoring Harry’s words. Like he’s dodging confrontation with him specifically.

“Well, technically he’s already left so he can’t really…” Niall trails off when Louis shoots him a look. It’d be almost comical, if it wasn’t for the fact that nothing about Louis’ anger is funny.

He’s still glaring at Niall when he speaks again. “He told us he wouldn’t do that.”

“He never liked the kind of music we made. Are you really surprised?” Liam interjects, defending Zayn now. It’s not as if they’re happy Zayn is gone – Louis isn’t the only one that’s pissed – but Liam has managed, as he always does, to see both sides. To think rationally.

“You’d think he’d at least wait longer than two months.” Louis allows, a little more crestfallen than Harry expected.

“So? What difference does it make? He can do what he wants now. He’s not in the band.” Liam shrugs, though Harry can see he’s uneasy.

“Oh, no kidding, Liam. Thanks for clearing that up.” Louis says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Here I was thinkin’ – _gee_ , Zayn’s late to work today!” he throws his arms up in frustration, letting them drop again before shaking his head wearily, “Jesus Christ.”

The room immediately falls silent, Liam unable to (or maybe smart enough not to) think of anything to say in response. All of them know what things are like between Louis and Zayn. Harry remembers how close they’d gotten when things went sour between him and Louis. Harry hates admitting it, but at the time he’d been jealous of Zayn for it. Now he sees that the end of his friendship with Zayn is really taking its toll on Louis. If Harry and Louis’ friendship wasn’t so new again, he’d advise Louis to just _talk_ to Zayn, but he doesn’t want to step out of line. Knows Louis just needs to simmer in his anger a little while longer.

“Isn’t Z gonna be at the party on the weekend?” Niall asks Harry quietly, a little while later. The tension in the room over the Zayn article isn’t completely dispersed, but they’ve moved onto other things. Work is mostly over, but sometimes they spend an hour or so back in the studio just hanging out.

Harry looks up from scrolling through his Instagram feed. “I think so, yeah.”

Niall raises his eyebrows and then leans a little closer, not wanting to be overheard. “Hope he and Louis don’t run into each other. Louis is _not_ ready for that encounter.”

Harry flicks his eyes over to Louis who’s talking animatedly with Liam over FIFA.

“No, he isn’t.” He agrees, clenching his jaw ever so slightly.

“You’ll keep him outta trouble, though, won’t ya?” Niall says with a playful smirk, even going so far as to wink at Harry.

Harry is sure his heart drops to the pit of his stomach. He’s staring at Niall completely dumbfounded, his heart racing in his ribcage. _What is that supposed to mean?_ His mind races to the last several days since Holmes Chapel – trying to remember if he’d let slip somehow. Surely there’s no way he has. He’s been trying so hard to keep things platonic, to avert Louis’ eyes whenever things felt too strange, to strike up a conversation with someone else if they got too close. Sure, he’s not the best actor in the world – he knows that. He also knows that when he’s around Louis, it’s a lot easier said than done to just keep him at a distance. He knows he’s failed himself plenty before in front of Niall – laughing giddily or going pink whenever Louis sits close to him on the couch. There’s still no goddamn way Niall knows. Right?

It’s got to only be a few seconds, but it feels longer before Niall laughs confusedly, frowning a little at Harry’s shock.

“What you lookin’ at me like that for?” he asks with a breathy laugh, frown lines etched but a puzzled smirk at his lips. And it becomes apparent to Harry very quickly that Niall is utterly clueless to his feelings. “Relax! I’m allowed to celebrate the fact that my best mates are friends again, aren’t I?”

Harry laughs nervously, too caught up in the realisation that he’s in the clear to really concentrate on what Niall is saying anymore. He hates being on edge like this, but he has no idea how to fix it. It’s not as if he can tell anyone about it and he certainly can’t just wish away his feelings. He’s tried doing that. Been trying for years, in fact. It’s just not possible.

So instead of speaking, Harry just nods absentmindedly, his eyes focusing elsewhere. Niall doesn’t really think twice about it – ignoring Harry messing about with his hair – and gets up out of his seat.

“Oi, Louis!” Niall calls as he starts grabbing his bag. Harry’s stomach growls to remind him he should head home for lunch as well.  

“Mm?” Louis hums, looking up from his game controller.

“You goin’ to Rita Ora’s birthday on the weekend?”

“Yeah, think I might.”

“Alright, cool.”

“Hey! Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m going?” Liam says with a wounded tone, frowning up at Niall from beside Louis. Louis whips his head around to Liam and laughs at his melodramatic expression.

“Are you going to the party, Liam?” Niall recites as if forced, but Harry knows he’s joking.

“I think I will do, Niall. Very considerate of you to ask.” Liam answers perkily.

Niall cackles in response, tilting his head back with joyous carelessness. As he leaves the room, he begins whistling _Lovely Rita_ by the Beatles.

Harry shuffles on the couch, shaking his head with a smile at the sound of Niall singing ‘ _lovely Rita, meter maid!_ ’ down the corridor. He doesn’t notice Louis watching him tentatively, and it’s a surprise when he addresses him when he speaks.

“You’re going too, right?” Louis asks, looking over at Harry with a kind of hopefulness.  

Harry can’t help smiling at the way Louis looks at him, like he really wants Harry to be at the party. If he’s honest, he’s never really been that keen on the big celebrity parties – they attract paparazzi and gossip article like the plague. Alas, his desire to spend more time with Louis outweighs the paranoia that he’ll make a drunken fool of himself.

“Yeah.” He says.

# …

Harry feels overdressed. Or perhaps, _undressed_ , as the case may be – considering how many buttons are undone on his floral silk shirt. It’s cold out, particularly so now the sun is down and the night is pitch black. Luckily Harry’s woollen overcoat traps in enough heat for him to avoid shivering like jelly.  

Parties like these are all the same to Harry. Not that he doesn’t enjoy them – he really does love meeting new industry people, or catching up with old friends. However, the formula never changes. The paparazzi hide in the bushes outside Rita Ora’s London penthouse, bulbs flashing in his face when he arrives. He knows he’ll be added to the star studded guest list for tomorrow’s tabloid news.

He has to get through a series of security men before he’s in the party itself – and even that feels like an overwhelming maze. It’s loud and it’s dark, with lights flashing and people everywhere. There’s always a strange mix at these events, Harry notices. He sees Lily Allen talking to James Corden by the corner of the room, while Miley Cyrus ( _of all people!_ Harry thinks) yells her next song request over the music to the DJ.

Harry makes it his mission to find the host – birthday girl Rita – before he socialises with anyone else. He knows it’s a little futile, considering there must be over 800 guests, but he’s adamant about it. It’s not every day you turn 25. He’s stopped every few minutes as he searches – by drunk strangers yelling his name with great gusto, or friends who’ve not seen him in months. Eventually he finds Rita, dressed in bright red and downing an expensive champagne from the bottle by the spa on the patio. She yells when she spots him, quickly putting down the bottle and raising her arms for a hug. She attended his 21st just four months ago, but other than that they’ve not seen each other.

She convinces him within seconds to join her, Kelly Osbourne and Rashida Jones in one of the photo booths inside the main hosting area and before Harry knows it, he’s sandwiched between several celebrities he’s never even been properly introduced to. Everyone is drunk and excitable, yelling and pulling faces at the camera – and Harry just does his best to keep up.

Once they’ve finished with the photo booth (or rather, once Harry finds a polite way to exit while everyone else continues to pose for pictures), Harry heads down a hallway in the hopes for some quiet. Well, as quiet as a house full of hundreds people and blasting music can get.

He pulls out his phone, squinting down at the two unread messages there. The one from Niall asks for the address of the party (which makes Harry scoff; trust Niall to be flaky on the details) and the one from Grimmy (sent thirty minutes ago) asking him when he’s expecting to arrive. But there’s radio silence from the one person he really wants to hear from: Louis Tomlinson. Harry’s been there about twenty minutes – but he was late in the first place. He figures there’s no harm in calling.

“Harry!” exclaims Louis after only three rings. Harry can’t tell if it’s just his end that’s loud or if Louis is somewhere in the party. “Where are ya?”

“M’at the party. Where are you?”

“ _At the party!_ ” Louis laughs loudly and it makes Harry grin into the phone.

“Where, though?”

“Upstairs!”

“I’ll come to you.” Harry insists, pretty much yelling over the noise as he searches for the stairs. He doesn’t hang up, just listens as Louis attempts to describe his surroundings. It’s pretty pointless, considering the penthouse is several stories high – each room filled with hundreds of people and too dark to recognise anything note worthy as a searching point. Louis’ yelled encouragement and directions are oddly comforting as Harry sifts through the rooms and people.

“By the window!” Louis yells into the phone when Harry reaches the top of the stairs. Harry cranes his neck over the crowds of people and sees a hand waving across the room and knows instantly it’s Louis.

Harry just grins when he approaches Louis, the look completely mirrored back at him. It’s too loud to really greet one another cordially, so they just stand off to the side, Harry hanging the phone call up the moment they’re together. Louis eyes Harry’s phone in his hand, sees his own contact blaring white on the screen.

“Louis Tomlinson?” he questions, leaning into Harry’s personal space in order to be heard. Harry frowns down at him, successfully (for once) masking the nerves at the close proximity. Louis just looks disgruntledly back at him. “My contact name!” he elaborates, pointing at Harry’s phone. When Harry added Louis’ number back into his phone over a month ago, things were strictly professional between them. He hasn’t had a chance to change the contact name since. “Louis Tomlinson.” He repeats, loud but in a mockingly posh tone.

“What’d you want it to be then?” Harry yells back, grinning despite himself.

“Well, no, that’s not the point, is it?” Louis says incredulously, “ _I_ don’t choose it!”

“What’s mine in your phone?”

Louis bites his lip forgetfully, pulls out his phone and searches. He looks up at Harry with a kind of guilty expression. “Harry.”

“That’s hardly original either, Louis!” Harry laughs over the music, wondering if there’s any place else they can get privacy.

“Alright then, we’ll both fix it.”

“What, here?” Harry asks loudly, “Now?”

“ _Yes_ , here, now! Where else?”

“It’s a little loud, that’s all.” Harry says, amused by the dramatics Louis is putting on.

“It’s a party, Harry! What did you expect?”

“M’kay, just checking.”

The pair stand there, side by side in the corner of the room immersed in their little challenge. Harry peeks over at Louis’ phone with a very suspicious expression, but Louis just jerks his phone away, smirking to himself.

“Are you using emojis?” Harry asks, frowning down at his phone. He’s typed the nickname that feels right, but he’s reluctant still.

“Yes, obviously.” Louis says, not taking his eyes off his phone either, “You have to as well.”  

Harry heaves a sigh at that. The emoji keyboard overwhelms him. He never knows which one to use for what situation – usually opting out altogether. He scrolls through the faces. They’re all pretty straight forward, he thinks – but not right for Louis.

Louis looks up from his phone, as if to say without words that he’s done. Harry, however, feels unprepared, deep frown lines etched in his forehead. He knows he must seem laughable for taking it so seriously, because Louis is smiling at him. It’s not a mocking kind of smile, Harry realises. He’s not quite sure what it is, though.

“Go on, show me.” Louis demands, looking impatiently over at Harry’s phone. Harry shields the screen and gives him a stern glare, but it’s hard to make convincing when he cracks a smile. He can’t even stay fake mad at Louis. _God, I’m in deep_.

Finally, he decides he likes what he’s chosen and is ready to share with Louis. He bites his lower lip as he hands him the phone. It reads ‘Lou’ with a single emoji – the purple sunrise over the mountains. Harry watches Louis’ reaction carefully, sees a flicker of recognition and a small smile.

“Why that one?” Louis asks (or rather – _shouts_ ). His face is so goddamn expressive – conveying his feelings in a way words can’t (on account of the music drowning everything out).  

Harry has to speak into Louis’ ear in order to be heard. “‘Cause we’re always talkin’ at the crack of dawn!”

He doesn’t mention that it reminds him of the song _A.M._ , and the special moment they shared after writing it. He doesn’t mention the time Louis called him at three in the morning simply to say hi. He doesn’t even mention Holmes Chapel and the way they talked into the early hours just because they could. It’s all too loud in here to say any of that and Harry just isn’t brave enough.

Louis cackles and nods appreciatively. “Okay, okay. Fair enough.” He doesn’t say anything else before holding out his phone to show Harry’s contact name. The name reads ‘Harold’ with the slice of cake emoji beside it.

“What’s the cake for!” Harry laughs disbelievingly.

“ _I was a great baker!_ ” Louis echoes Harry’s words from the weekend, yelling it in the worst impression of Harry’s low voice. It makes him burst into laughter, covering his face with embarrassment and shaking his head. Louis just beams proudly at him. “And y’know – you got me into that bloody cookin’ show too.”

“ _The Great British Bake Off_?” Harry asks, dropping his hands and failing to conceal his grin. It’s the third time Louis has referred to the baking show as ‘that bloody show’ despite knowing full well what it’s called.

Louis nods exaggeratedly, closing his eyes to emphasise the seriousness of the situation. “You know, I found a way to watch the old seasons. Didn’t leave my couch for days!”

“I’ve created a monster.” Harry says in a grave voice, shaking his head in faux grief. Louis rolls his eyes.

“D’you wanna get a drink?” Louis says after a silence, jerking his head in gesture to the other side of the room where the bar is. The air of casual confidence about him could make Harry weak at the knees. He can’t tell if Louis knows he has this effect or if he’s completely oblivious. Harry guesses it doesn’t matter either way, only that he will do anything Louis says when he looks at him like that.

“Yeah, why not.”

Harry isn’t planning to get drunk tonight. At least, not too drunk. He’s fully aware of how he can be when he’s had something to drink (embarrassingly affectionate and all over whoever will let him) and knowing how unstable he already is with Louis; he doesn’t want to risk it. But when Louis implores him to let his hair down (‘ _not literally though, ‘cause, y’know’_ he says, gesturing to Harry’s long curls) Harry finds it an offer that’s hard to refuse.

He’s sipping on his second peppermint schnapps when he realises he’s getting a little tipsy. Or probably very tipsy, considering what a lightweight he is. It’s hard to tell, really, just sitting by the bar with Louis, intoxicated by him regardless of the alcohol in his system. Everything and everyone just seems to go on around them – people dancing and yelling, the photo booths flashing for every picture, the lights beaming around in colourful spots. With all these distractions, it’s a wonder how Harry only has eyes for Louis.

Harry’s cheeks are flushed with pink, his senses numbed ever so slightly. He rests his cheek against his palm, unintentionally leaning close to Louis in a dazed kind of interest. Louis isn’t even saying anything that riveting – in fact, the more Louis drinks, the more he talks absolute nonsense. He’s making Harry laugh though, so he doesn’t stop – hands waving about as he describes something Harry won’t even be able to recall by the end of the night.

Although Louis holds his liquor much better than Harry does, it’s pretty clear after a few that he’s drunk, too. When they decide to abandon the bar and explore the penthouse (Louis loudly proclaiming his own nosiness), Harry realises just how far gone he really is. Standing feels like he’s on a boat, or on the tube as it goes around a corner. His footing isn’t stable – not one bit.

As the two of them wiggle through the crowds, Harry spots Niall cackling at something Ellie Goulding just said – his head tilting back and can of beer in hand. Harry thinks to go over and talk to him, but Louis is feet ahead of him and if he loses him in a crowd, it’ll be pretty impossible to find him again.

They make their way downstairs; very carefully on Harry’s part, taking each step slow and steady while Louis practically skips four steps at a time. How he doesn’t break an ankle is beyond Harry.

“WAIT!” Harry yells a little sloppily, stumbling at the bottom of the steps, “ _Whoa_ ,” he gasps softly, his arms outstretched as if that’ll balance him better. Louis strides a meter ahead of him, turning around when he hears Harry yell. “Did’ya see that?” he says with shock before he starts goofily laughing, “Nearly fell over!”

Louis laughs in spite of himself, pushing his way back through the crowd to reach Harry. “C’mon, Humpty Dumpty.” He says in what Harry recognises to be an endearing tone, though everything is kind of unfocused so he can’t really be sure.

“No, wait–” Harry exclaims, sounding drunker by the second, “I need to have a wee.” Louis holds back the laughter at how serious Harry sounds, “You stay here.” He says with a determined nod, staring down at Louis.

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

Louis laughs. “Promise.”

 

**Flashback: June 2012**

Harry has never been so nervous for a meeting in his life. The last time he and Louis were called in for a private conference with Simon and the head of Modest! was the beginning of last year. At the time, nothing was going on between them. They didn’t need to lie or make up some outlandish excuse when interrogated about ‘Larry Stylinson’. There was nothing _to_ lie about. Now, though? There definitely is.

Louis kisses Harry soft and chaste on the lips - the first in a long while, and it’s a little awkward, and somehow it’s anything but reassuring. For a millisecond Harry looks at Louis and thinks he’s telling him something without words, and then he squeezes his hand and promises him it’ll be okay. That there’s nothing to hide. Though Harry knows that’s just not true.  

Sure, on the outside they’re just friends. They laugh and tease one another the same as any mates would. Before he knew it, the five months between their first kiss and Eleanor's introduction flew by, Harry greeting her for the first time with a churning in his gut. How awfully convenient that she appear right after management talked to Louis privately. At the time the hard look on Louis's face hadn't meant much, accompanied by an exasperated ‘don’t worry’ and the overall demeanour of a boy too tired to talk about the details. So it was merely a bad day, he’d thought. Harry'd got a smile on that weary face soon enough and the day passed on like any other. The next thing he knew, though, was that Louis had a girlfriend. It hadn't ever made sense –  still doesn't – but since when does love make sense? Instead, Harry grins and bears any mention of Eleanor, letting the charade carry on despite the conflicted feeling of love, of loss and overwhelming confusion that exacerbate every day.

Because it isn’t a PR stunt. Just because management introduced Louis to Eleanor doesn’t mean the relationship is fake. Harry can see that. They hold hands even when the cameras aren’t rolling, Louis talks about her with a glint in his eyes and they just seem happy. Louis seems happy. But then why does he use every excuse to touch Harry when he thinks no one is looking? Why is it that when they’re alone they can’t keep their hands off each other? Sometimes when they’re together, in stitches over something the other has said, Harry wonders if he’ll ever be able to tell Louis how he feels. And sometimes with the way Louis looks at him, it’s like he’s holding something back, too. But then the moment always passes, and they’re teasing and messing around again.

On the outside, they’re just friends. But behind closed doors, it’s a different story. And right now, in the Modest! reception, Harry is sure management knows it.  

It’s terrifying, Harry decides the moment they sit opposite Simon Cowell and the various associates within the management team. Absolutely terrifying. Like last time they were here, management have evidence. The only difference this time around is that the video they show is more than simple fan speculation. It’s cold hard fact.

“What were you doing here?” asks the woman calmly, looking from the screen to the boys sitting opposite her. She looks stern, has a detached kind of aura about her. Harry doesn’t immediately recognise her – though the label on her name tag reads ‘Linda’. He guesses she’s just today’s mouthpiece for the rest of the company. The three other people in the room do nothing but observe, making Harry feel uncomfortable. One man writes everything that’s spoken in a quick, professional scribble.  

The video is pixelated and shakily hand-held, but every time it plays Harry feels a leap in his stomach with nerves. He gulps dry, risking a glance at Louis beside him. Louis is always better at this stuff. Deflecting rumours. Only this is more than a rumour.

“We were drunk...” Louis says. Harry can detect the nerves in his voice, knows Louis’ heart thuds quickly in unison with his own.

A beat.

“It’s nothing.” He adds flippantly, not even bothering to feign ignorance. The way he says it, it’s as if the unspoken accusation by management is utterly laughable. It's almost believable, even to Harry.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” begins Linda; the way she says Louis’ name puts a bad taste in Harry’s mouth, “I don’t think either of you understand the gravitas of the situation.” She says calmly, looking between them both. “You were in a foreign country. Not only did you conduct yourselves poorly in public – the whole band will be reprimanded for the drunken charade you both put on – but you also allowed something like _this_ ,” she gestures again to the dark, blurry video of Harry holding Louis inside a bar, “To be captured on film.”

“We weren’t kissing.” Harry says in a small voice, though there’s an edge to it. A resentment.

“No?” Simon interjects, with a hint of darkness to the faint amusement Harry detects there. Even after knowing him three years, Harry is still scared of him.

“No,” Harry says more adamantly, “We weren’t.”

It’s easy to gain this confidence when he knows he’s telling the truth. Sure, the video is pretty compromising. It’s pixelated enough that anyone could draw the conclusion being suggested here. But they _really_ weren’t kissing. Harry made sure of it. Louis was drunk enough not to see the hoards of fans outside, but Harry hadn’t been. And maybe if he’d had a little more to drink it would have turned into a kiss. Instead, it was barely even an embrace, though clearly intimate.

Still incriminating.  

“It doesn’t matter, either way. The fans have made up their minds about what they’ve seen.” The woman cuts across the stare Harry is giving Simon. He flicks his gaze back to hers, breathing slowly in order to calm himself. “Now,” she begins, rifling through paperwork absentmindedly, “We’ve tracked down the source to have it removed, but the truth of the matter is – the damage is done.”

“Yeah, but that’s just the fans, isn’t it?” Louis says, fidgeting a little in his seat beside Harry, “Nobody else cares, do they?” It’s almost a question, like he needs reassurance. It makes Harry’s heart ache, the fact that they are being made to feel shame for something they didn’t even do.

“I don’t get why it would be a big deal if we _had_ been… kissing…” Harry says after a short silence, looking down as he speaks. He can practically feel Simon Cowell’s glare burning into his forehead. But when he looks back up, Simon keeps his pursed lips shut.

“Mr Styles, need I remind you that your fan base is largely made up of young girls?” Linda informs him as if instructing a child of something obvious, “Young girls who – quite frankly, are absolutely besotted with you.”

“So?” Harry almost wants to laugh. He’s so goddamn sick of being made to care about how desirable he is to strangers. Like he’s a piece of meat. He’s only a kid, why can’t they just let him act like it?

“ _So_ , the way this looks – it’s going to affect the popularity of the band. It’s already attracting unwanted attention.”

Louis scoffs coldly and folds his arms. “I thought any publicity was good publicity.”

“Is there anything we should be concerned about?” Simon interjects with a drawl, looking at Louis with narrowed eyes. Harry feels his heart constrict at the question, watching Louis’ reaction carefully. All eyes are on him.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Louis says in a slightly deflated version of his previous gusto.

Simon heaves a sigh, leaning back in his chair to show how very at ease he is. How in _control_ he is.

“Has the nature of your relationship changed since we last discussed it?” He puts it plainly, almost monotone.

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat and he thanks God that no one is focusing on him as attentively as they are on Louis. He keeps his expression composed through the waves of anger. All the while, Louis just sits rigidly beside him. Harry wishes he knew the answer to the question.

Wishes there was a simpler answer.

“No… _no_. What? I have a girlfriend.”

“Good.” Simon says with a restrained satisfaction. He looks between Louis and Harry a second longer, as if trying to detect any insincerity that might fall through the façade. He seems relatively convinced. “Let’s make sure it stays that way. Because then we’d have a problem.”

All Harry can think is why. Over and over. _Why would it be a bad thing?_ He knows he should shut up. He knows anything he says will only incriminate them further, if he’s not careful. He can’t just keep it to himself, though. Can’t understand why the people in charge of his welfare are so adamant that he not be happy. Because with Louis, he’s happy.

“I don’t understand,” Harry says glumly, though with an anger behind it. “I don’t get what the problem is?”

Linda exchanges a meaningful glance with Simon before leaning forward, elbows on the table. She can’t be much older than 30, but the way she looks at Harry it’s as if he’s five, not eighteen. Like she’s his condescending mother.

“Inter-band relationships are absolutely unacceptable. When you and the rest of the band signed with Modest! Management, you agreed to a contract that strictly prohibits anything of the sort.” The way she says it, it’s like a rehearsed script. As if she remembered the _exact_ legal obligations off by heart specifically for this occasion, anticipating Harry’s objection. Because even with the contractual requirements, Harry knows the real truth to why Simon believes there’d be a ‘problem’.

He feels sick. Linda can tell the seriousness of her words have answered his question, because she nods and leans back, returning her attention to the paperwork. Harry just sits wordlessly, feeling Louis seated uneasily beside him. Both of them never thought of it that way. At the time of their deal after X Factor, they could never have known any of this would happen. The public relations clause within the contract was just a bunch of legal jargon standing in the way of their dream career. At the time it was a no-brainer to sign their freedom away. They could never have known.

“Harry,” Simon begins as if starting a new topic, “I think we should set you up with a nice girl. Preferably someone already in the public eye.” He turns to the woman, almost talking more to her now. “I think it’ll be good to set it up around the release of the second album. It’ll help with publicity.” He murmurs as Linda nods eagerly, jotting something quickly down in her page.

Harry isn’t really present after that. His ears are ringing and he feels like he could faint. He wants to yell or storm out – make a huge embarrassing scene just so they’d wake up to how he really feels. But he’s too scared. He’s just too damn scared.

“What if I refuse?” Is what he ends up saying quietly, defeat lacing the question because he already knows the answer.

Louis squeezes Harry’s knee under the table in reassurance. It’s gentle and it’s not seen by anyone.

“You won’t,” shrugs Linda as if stating the obvious, “It would be an awful shame for your career to end after barely a year, now, wouldn’t it? All that wasted potential. Terrible, terrible shame.”

Simon just sits silently beside her, allowing the venom of his stare to be spoken in Linda’s calculated words. Harry knows everything she says is a direct reflection of Simon’s views. He doesn’t have to even say a thing to get his agenda across. They knew it wouldn’t be simple, Harry thinks. They knew he’d hate it. That’s why Simon’s here – for one big scare-tactic. And it’s working.

“Are you _threatening_ him?” Louis snaps protectively. Harry can feel Louis’ grip on his knee get tighter. He looks over at him, feeling like he might cry. _What have we gotten ourselves into?_

“It’s not a threat, Mr Tomlinson. It’s a promise. You’re young. You’re new here. You don’t know the entertainment industry or fan bases like we do. We’ve had years of experience with these things. I can guarantee you this is the best way forward.”

And it breaks Harry’s heart, because he doesn’t want to believe it. Alas he knows they’re right. So neither he nor Louis say anything after that; the defeated air about them seeping into the room. Louis’ hand retracts from Harry’s knee, folds into his lap as he fidgets uncomfortably. Simon and Linda wait expectantly.

“Okay...” Harry says, swearing his voice breaks under the strain of the situation, “What do I need to do?”

# …

Harry isn’t surprised when he returns from the bathroom to no sign of Louis. It’s a big party, Louis is pretty drunk and, worst of all, Harry is disorientated enough to not even be sure this is where he left Louis in the first place. _Every room looks the bloody same._

He makes the rounds through the room; having to literally interrupt a conga line in order to pass through, spotting Nick loudly and terribly attempting karaoke. And still no Louis. He supposes he should give up. Being drunk with Louis seems good in theory, but now that Harry’s alone, he’s starting to rethink all of it. Being drunk means no inhibitions. And inhibitions are the only thing stopping Harry from doing something stupid. He’s had plenty to drink already, but even with his drunken logic, he can’t let himself make a mistake. Because they worked so hard to get back to where they are and it’s all still so tentative and new. At least, Harry _thinks_ it is; by the way they can’t look into each other's eyes for longer than a few seconds without it bringing pink to both their cheeks. Yet at the same time, it feels like no time has passed – as if they’re just kids again, full of life and laughter. Like all that hurt and pain and distance can be rewritten, even just for a moment.  

All Harry feels when he’s with Louis is a swelling in his heart, and all he can think of is how much he loves him. With the alcohol heightening everything, it’s as if he has to fight this battle within himself not to ruin everything. It’s for that reason that he starts to lose a little of the enthusiasm and fervour that had him searching every room for Louis. _Maybe it’s for the best_ , he thinks, _this way I can’t possibly make a fool of myself_.

His internal struggle is interrupted, mid-walk, when a blonde blur of a person approaches him with great enthusiasm. It takes him a second, almost jumping as the tall woman grabs his arm.

“Harry!” she exclaims, stopping in front of Harry so that his unfocused gaze can reach hers.

“Cara?” he says with a frown, though it breaks into a smile at the sight of his friend. He pulls her into a hug, squeezing tight before breaking apart. He hasn’t seen Cara Delevingne in a long time. He’s so used to just getting life updates of her through Kendall that it doesn’t feel as long as it probably has been. “I didn’t know you were comin’!”

Cara just nods frantically, her hair a little frazzled and, overall, looking very much off her face. It makes Harry laugh a little to see her this way. Considering he and Cara only really get to see each other at professional functions, it’s truly not something he’s often privy to see.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asks, frowning at Cara’s anguished expression. She pouts her lips and groans, looking off at the party distractedly and then focusing on Harry again. He just waits patiently, swaying ever so slightly on the spot but more or less completely present in the moment.

“I need to tell her!” Cara announces, yelling over the music. Her thick brows are etched in a deep concentration and her lips pout with a kind of petulance. “I have to tell Kenny!”

“Who?” Harry asks stupidly.

“KENDALL!” she yells and it makes Harry’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise, “I _have_ to tell her how I feel!”

“Yeah! Okay?” he says, trying his best to mirror her enthusiasm while simultaneously having no idea what Cara means. It would be obvious to anyone half as drunk as he is, but Harry’s so caught up trying to find Louis, so utterly oblivious to what Cara could mean, that his brain can’t process what she’s trying to say. He thinks absentmindedly that it must be to do with Kendall’s feelings for Cara. She hasn’t talked to him about it much lately, only that he knows she’s head over heels for her best friend. He thinks maybe now would be the time to point out the obvious to Cara – _Kendall is in love with you, you idiot!_ But he’s just too distracted trying to search the crowd for Louis and too damn drunk to act on the instinct quick enough.

Cara is rambling about Kendall incoherently before Harry can stop her, trying to focus on everything with vacant kind of nod every time she stops for a breath. He can’t help his eyes from instinctually scanning the crowd, no matter how hard he tries to stay devoted to Cara’s story and it’s then that he spots them. Louis and Zayn. Together. _Alone,_ together.

_Oh, God._

He registers the subtlest hint of a pang in his chest at the sight of his ex band mate, though it’s muffled by the alcohol. He hasn’t seen Zayn since he told them he was leaving. Now, he stands with a glass of wine in hand, and that same casual elegance about him that Harry remembers well.

Harry doesn’t have time to focus on Zayn for long before his eyes are darting to Louis next to him. The way Louis stands stiffly – even from this distance the complete air of bitterness about him is obvious. Harry can’t help but think how attractive he looks, just standing defensively, his arms folded and lips pursed. Harry knows that look, knows whatever is about to come can’t be good. Not with the way Louis was talking about Zayn earlier. Harry’s new priority is to get Louis away from Zayn.

He turns his attention back to Cara who looks even more distressed about Kendall than when she first approached him.

“I’m sorry, Cara, I– I _really_ have to– I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He squeezes her arm gently, hoping he isn’t totally abandoning her in her time of need. She’s so off her face it’s unlikely she’ll even remember everything she’s just revealed to him in the morning.

Harry makes a beeline through the crowd to reach Zayn and Louis, who in the seconds since he spotted them, have not eased at all with one another. If anything, the tension in their bodies heightens as time passes. It’s Zayn who spots him first, Louis’ back facing him.

“Harry,” he says in a pleasantly surprised tone when Harry has almost reached them. The awkward attempt at welcoming Harry is so jarring and out of place in the tension of the situation. Louis doesn’t even turn to see where Zayn’s looking. _This is bad. This is very bad_.

“Zayn.” Is all Harry can manage when he stops before them, looking at the fuming Louis beside him. He could cut the tension with a damn knife.

“I’ve been looking for you.” Harry says to Louis, quietly leaning in. For some reason it’s something he doesn’t want Zayn to witness.

“Well, you’ve found me.” Louis says cynically, his eyebrows raising a little and lips pursing. He clenches his jaw, not looking at Harry but focusing completely on Zayn. He’s got that air of complete resentment about him, all riled up and ready to snap. After a second, shifting his weight tensely from one foot to another, he chances a look at Harry, and tells him without words: _sorry._ It eases Harry’s quickening heart beat just a fraction.

The whole situation sobers Harry instantly, like the fluffy edges of his vision turn to sharp focus just by standing there. It’s _fucking awkward_ , really.

“How’ve you been, Harry?” Zayn asks after a prolonged silence, fidgeting a little uncomfortably. It seems Zayn was in control of the situation before, almost like he had the upper hand. Now with another estranged friend thrown in the mix, he’s a little off his game. “It’s been a while.”

Louis scoffs coldly at that, shifting slightly and unfolding his arms to shove them in his pockets. He’s still drunk, Harry is sure, enough that he’s completely lost any desire to be civil with Zayn. Harry has no idea what would have happened had he not approached them, not interrupted the intensity of their glares.

“It has.” Harry agrees, nodding slowly. It takes every fibre of his being not to show how he really feels. He misses Zayn, he can’t deny that. But Harry isn’t the one who left. He’s got no reason to reach out, at least not right now. There’s no animosity there, Harry thinks (though certainly it’s uncomfortable). Just an unspoken understanding that things aren’t going to be the same between them now that he’s left.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Harry answers amicably, tearing his eyes from Louis to properly look at Zayn.

Now that he’s standing in front of him, he can truly see how Zayn has changed in the time they’ve spent apart. His face is fuller, the sallow cheekbones of his days in the band a thing of the past. His head is shaved, and Harry thinks how oddly funny it is – not the way it looks, but the symbolism it holds. They always used to complain about how management was so restrictive that they couldn’t even do what they wanted with their hair. Now here Zayn is, confidently displaying a new and improved look; at home with himself in a way Harry is sure he started to lose touch with last year.

It makes Harry feel a strange stirring in his stomach. Almost as if he can put to bed the leftover resentment he’d been bottling up for the past two months since Zayn left. Sometimes it’s just that easy, Harry thinks. And maybe it should make him feel sadder, maybe the nostalgia should hit him in waves of regret. But it doesn’t. It just doesn’t. He truly wants nothing but the best for Zayn.  

Zayn nods, pursing his lips ever so slightly and looking between Louis and Harry. He was never good with confrontation, Harry remembers. Always too shy to really breeze through awkward situations like his cool demeanour might suggest he could. Now is no different – he stands silently, offering no words of civility to Harry or Louis. Granted, the look Louis is giving Zayn can hardly be helping. When Harry glances at him again, he’s reminded why he interrupted the conversation in the first place. He has to get Louis away somehow.  

“Congratulations on the, uh… the record deal.” Harry says cordially. Although it _should_ sound insincere, bitter even – it doesn’t. It makes Louis stiffen beside him, that’s his only regret.

“Thanks, man.” Zayn says with a sort of appreciative, subtle smile. He seems to relax ever so slightly, taking a sip of his wine. His reaction tells Harry he didn’t expect to be treated so courteously.

“Yeah, fuckin’ brilliant, that is.” Louis says, his words dripping with venomous sarcasm. Zayn’s face turns stony and Harry’s heart falls to the pit of his stomach.

“Come on, Lou.” Harry murmurs, gently placing his hand on Louis’ shoulder to get his attention over the loud music. Louis doesn’t look at him – but Zayn does. He’s watching their interaction very carefully, in fact, and it dawns on Harry a little late what this must look like. Because the last time Harry was so physically comfortable with Louis must have been years ago. As far as Zayn had been aware, Harry and Louis weren’t even on speaking terms.

“Let’s go.” With those last words, he lets his hand slide off Louis’ shoulder and search for his hand at his side. It’s completely reckless, he knows that. But he’s kind of drunk and completely in love, and desperate to find a way out of this daunting situation.

The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Louis – how could it? His gaze is broken, turning his attention quickly to Harry’s hand which loops around his wrist, tugging gently. Louis just stares down at it, dumbfounded. It’s a full three seconds before he pulls his hand out of his pocket, allowing Harry to fully hold it.

“It was… err,” Harry searches for the word he’s lost, completely distracted by the physical contact he’s sharing with Louis. All three of them are so acutely aware of the elephant in the room, but it’s almost as if looking directly at it is impossible. “… Nice to see you again, Zayn.” He tugs on Louis’ hand, pulling him away from the situation.

He doesn’t really hear Zayn’s parting words, just guides Louis by his hand through the crowd. He doesn’t let go, not when the crowds have dispersed at the stairs, not even when they find themselves on the rooftop garden.

It’s nice up here under the fairy lights and glow of the outdoor heaters. It’s insanely beautiful, actually, if Harry is being honest. Like a secret garden; moss and vines growing along the bricks and a water feature at the end wall. Harry makes a mental note to add rooftop garden to his list of requirements when he’s next in search of a place to buy.

There’re other house guests on the roof, too, yet no one really pays attention to Louis and Harry. Even so, there’s only so long they can hold hands before it gets weird, before lines begin to get crossed. So once Harry’s led Louis through the greenery and toward the balcony railing, he begrudgingly lets go.

Louis has been awfully quiet this entire time, though Harry just equates it to the pent up rage over Zayn. Tries not to think it has anything to do with holding his hand. Tries even harder not to figure out whether that reaction is good or bad.

“What was that?” Harry asks calmly, leaning his elbows against the railing and looking out at the London skyline.

“What?”

“You know what,” Harry almost rolls his eyes at the immaturity Louis displays, but he manages to stay patient. He looks at Louis seriously, “With Zayn.”

Louis stretches his jaw in agitation. He brings his arms up to the railing, too, staring off.

“Nothing.”

“Lou, c’mon.”

“It’s fine,” Louis lies, shaking his head ever so slightly, “Just… had a _talk_. That’s all.”

“Really?” Harry knows this is a huge gamble – to prod and poke at Louis’ insecurities. He just can’t let it go, not when he knows it’s breaking Louis’ heart.

Louis heaves a sigh, finally meeting Harry’s gaze. “I can’t just forget what he did, H.”

“I know.”

“I get that I hold grudges too long but I’m not gonna just let this go.” Louis admits flippantly and Harry can tell he’s trying not to let what he’s saying get the best of him. The alcohol has loosened them both up enough. Harry is sure Louis wouldn’t usually be so quick to open up. “He left us! He fucking left and I–” he can’t even finish his sentence, he just groans angrily, kicking his Vans into the bottom of the railing, “Fuckin’ stupid.” He finally mumbles.

“Hey,” Harry begins, not even knowing where his sentence is going. He has to stop himself from reaching out and touching Louis again, knowing how tense Louis got the last time he did it. “I know… all of it _is_ stupid.” He says slowly and surely, not taking his eyes off Louis. “But… sometimes you have to put things into perspective. Like… don’t you think… he looks good?”

“He what?” Louis quips, looking up at Harry, affronted.

“He looks _good_ … I don’t know… healthy. Happy.” Harry clarifies.

Louis thinks about it, albeit with a kind of sour expression. He’s staring out at the city, the wind blowing softly in his hair. Harry watches him expectantly, unable to think much else except how beautiful he looks. Hair windswept and stylishly messy, his skin almost glowing under the fairy lights. And it’s the first time the whole night that he allows his mind to wander where it wants, lets himself imagine what it’d be like to kiss Louis. But only for a second, and then he’s looking off over the city, his heart racing despite himself. _Get it together_ , _Styles._  

Harry sighs into the silence, listening to the echo of the bass from within the house.

“I get that he was your best friend,” he begins. Before he can say anything more however, Louis turns his head away from the city and looks at Harry. The puzzled, almost offended expression on Louis’ face makes the sentence die on his lips.

“ _You’re_ my best friend.” Louis corrects with such a sincerity that Harry feels he should look away.  

“I am?” Harry stutters embarrassingly, but Louis doesn’t laugh at him.

“Yeah.”

“Even though…” Harry trails off, thinking of the days and months they spent apart. Thinking of all the times they couldn’t even look at each other. All the times Harry cried, alone over what he’d lost, thinking Louis was fine – _thriving_ even – without him. “Even after…”

“ _Harry._ You’re my best friend.” Louis repeats, with a relentless surety. The way he looks at him makes Harry’s throat restrict but he’s far beyond questioning the physical effect Louis has on him.  

“You’re mine, too,” Harry answers, feeling a little dizzy, “My best friend.” He adds quickly, because just saying _you’re mine_ makes his heart thud unreasonably in his chest. He runs his hand anxiously through his hair, trying to shake his nerves.

_Does Louis know?_

Does he know that means something different to Harry? The words could fall so easily from his lips in this moment, the alcohol hazing everything just enough. He doesn’t let them. Instead he sucks in a breath, grabs the railing with both hands and leans back, swaying slightly.

The silence between them is deafening and Harry decides he has to change the subject before he does something stupid. Like, _really_ fucking stupid.

“It’s a party, isn’t it?” Harry says kind of smiling a little even if its weary kind, “We should be y’know, dancin’… and taking shots or whatever.”

Louis laughs easily, flicking his fringe. The sound relaxes Harry’s nerves instantly.

“ _You_ wanna take shots?” He asks disbelievingly.

“What’d you mean ‘ _you’?”_ Harry says with an affronted frown, yet a smile tugs at his lips just by seeing Louis’ expression lighten.

“You’re absolutely piss weak, Harry!” Louis barks with laughter, “You throw up _every_ time.”

“Excuse me, Louis,” He blinks, “I resent that accusation. I’ll have you know I have a very strong gag reflex.”

Louis guffaws loudly, having to literally step away from Harry with amusement. He’s covering his mouth as if scandalised, but Harry doesn’t catch on. He frowns a second, though grinning at the reaction he’s elicited from Louis.

When it hits him, his mouth gapes, “ _Hey!_ ” he glowers at Louis who continues to laugh like a twelve-year-old boy. Harry stands there with his hands on his hips, apparently displeased (though actually head over heels for the joy radiating from Louis). “Dirty mind!”

Louis shakes his head, squinty eyed and laughing. It’s so bloody infectious and before Harry knows it, he’s in stitches too.

# …

The next two hours are a blur. Harry winces when he takes the first shot, all the while Louis cackles beside him. He doesn’t mind at all being laughed at by him – sticking his tongue out and coughing dramatically while Louis takes his with ease.

Harry and Louis are very different with their drunken dance moves. While Harry takes up a ridiculous amount of space, bumping into everyone with his lack of equilibrium and waving his hands around – Louis is a kind of contained bundle of energy, his arms held close to his body as he nods to the beat. _Somehow it works_ , Harry thinks.

The worst thing about being drunk with Louis is how badly Harry has to exercise restraint. The urge to reach out and touch Louis, to lean into him, to rest his cheek against his shoulder or weave his arm around his waist – it’s driving Harry crazy. All he wants to do in this moment is grab Louis by his collar and bring him close. He wants their bodies pressed together in the crowded space, dancing in a messy unison. It’s simply a drunken thought he shoves aside, the smile on his face only faltering for a second before he’s back to his intoxicated euphoria.

When it reaches the chorus of whatever song is playing, Harry screams it – making himself laugh before he’s even hit the high note because his voice cracks. He stumbles forward drunkenly into Louis, whose arms grab for him instinctively. Harry giggles his apology, letting Louis’ hand grip his waist without a second’s thought. It’s only when Louis keeps his hand there that Harry really registers it.

They just stand there, in the middle of the room while everyone dances around them – Louis’ hand on Harry’s waist as they stare at one another. It’s dark and Harry’s vision is a little unfocused, but Louis is looking at him intently. Somehow it feels as if Louis is pulling him closer – or maybe it’s just the tightness of the body of people around them that’s drawing him in. Harry can’t tell.

Regardless, Harry feels his heart pounding in his chest and his cheeks heating up. All he thinks is: _I have to get out of here_. Because with Louis looking at him like that, he can’t help but think things he isn’t allowed to.

He’s drunk, but the moment everything dawns on him – like how far he’s let things go, how much of a fool he’s made of himself – it sobers him almost instantly. What must Louis think? _Oh, God._

“I have to go!” Harry yells across the music suddenly, breaking the intensity of the moment. The weird energy between them doesn’t dissipate like he hopes it will, instead it feels more intense. He steps back, letting Louis’ hand retract from his waist awkwardly. “It’s late.”

“Oh, yeah, okay.” Louis agrees, a little surprised; but he swallows whatever emotions that flicker across his features. He follows Harry as he strides away from the dance floor. When Harry turns back to him, Louis is watching him closely, almost concerned. And a hint of something else too – a hint of… disappointment? _No._  

If it’s all one sided, then how does it feel so excruciatingly mutual? How is it that although Harry shuts it off immediately, there’s this strange tension lingering within Louis too? Harry feels like the vodka has completely gone to his head. It can’t mean anything, it can’t. It’s just a drunken touch that means absolutely nothing. _He just held your waist when you tripped, you complete idiot. Why are you overreacting?_

“Is everythin’ alright, Harry?” Louis asks, his expression so soft and imploring.

Harry stares at him a second longer and realises he has two options. He can push Louis away for something he hasn’t even done; lose his best friend for the second time, breaking his own heart in the process – or he can ignore the stupid drunken nagging in the back of his mind and just _be._ Just fucking let it be.

He chooses the latter.

“Yeah,” Harry answers with chagrin, “ _Yes_ , absolutely.” He reiterates, this time with more casual assurance that eases the frown lines from Louis’ features. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He adds with a small laugh, frowning at his own stupidity.

“I’ll walk with you to the car, yeah?” Louis says, slightly more chirpily, “I should probably be headin’ home myself.”

On their way out, Harry makes sure to find Rita to thank her once again. Despite Louis’ protests that finding the birthday girl (‘ _the birthday girl, Harold. She’ll be off her face! She won’t remember if you so much as throw up on her, let alone thank her’_ ) would be impossible, Harry proves him wrong.

“Thank you so much for having us,” Harry says graciously, pulling Rita aside from her karaoke shenanigans, “We had a lot of fun. And happy birthday, again.” He almost hopes Louis isn’t within earshot for that part, the _we_ pronouns – it’s a tipsy slip up, nothing more.   

“Always a gentleman.” Louis shakes his head gravely as Harry returns to him. _So much for not hearing, then._

Someone must have paid off the paps, Harry thinks, as they leave the London penthouse and all its guests behind, because no flashes go off and the street is silent. Granted, they leave through a much more secluded exit than the front door Harry had arrived at – but still. Paparazzi rarely miss the opportunity to capture drunken celebrities leaving parties. Rita really must have gone all out to avoid it this time. Harry thinks to thank her again for it, when he can. If he remembers, that is.

“Fuck,” Louis cusses, visibly slackening as he looks around the street. When Harry looks at him with concern, Louis sighs heavily, “My driver left.”

“That’s okay. You can come with me.” Harry offers quickly, before his rationale can take over.

“Really?”

“My driver won’t mind taking a detour.” Harry assures, surprising himself by how collected he’s appearing.

“Alright, thanks.”

The first five minutes are spent in silence. Harry and Louis sit in the back, a comfortable distance between them. Harry watches the houses blur past, feeling the affect of the alcohol slowly wear off. It’s not until Jarred, the driver, starts fiddling with the radio dial, that the silence evaporates.

“Can you leave it on that station, thanks?” Louis perks up politely, leaning closer to Harry just so he can make eye contact with the driver in the rear view mirror. Jarred nods silently, his gaze flicking back to the road. Louis leans back, satisfied, bopping his head to the beat of _Can’t Feel My Face_ by The Weeknd.

“Not this song.” Harry says with a disbelieving chuckle, the thudding beat filling the car.

Louis whips his head around to stare at Harry, clearly affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Not this song!” Harry repeats with a laugh, “It’s so overplayed!”  

“You’ve _got_ to be _kidding!_ ”

“M’not!” Harry can’t help but laugh at how serious Louis sounds. All the while The Weeknd’s sultry deep tone builds to the chorus. _The worst bit,_ Harry thinks to himself.

“It’s a banger, Harry!” Louis says snappily, though the overly dramatic aura about him tells Harry he’s not really mad. “What _are_ ya talkin’ about?”

“The lyrics!” Harry defends himself, the palm of his hand outstretched as if gesturing to the music itself.

> _I can’t feel my face when I’m with you,_
> 
> _But I love it, but I love it_

“Who loves to have a numb face?” Harry says seriously, huffing a laugh at the way Louis glares at him.

“It’s not meant to be taken _literally_ Harry, is it?” Louis exclaims. “It’s _romantic_!”

“It’s ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous?” Louis repeats over the music, “ _Ridiculous_ _?_ I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous – _you!_ That’s what!”

Harry can’t keep his shout of laughter in after that, slapping his knee and covering his face with the hilarity of it. Louis just watches him, the faux resentment fading into an unwilling smile. He tries hard to remain stony, but just watching Harry guffaw is enough to bring a grin to his lips too.

“I’m wounded.” Harry mumbles, his face flushed from laughing so hard. He has to suppress the giggle from rising in his chest again.

“Shut up.” Louis says, in more of a bashful tone rather than the aggressive one he took on earlier. He strains against his seat belt to speak to the driver again. “Turn it up, please, Mr. Driver!”

“Jarred – _do not_.” Harry warns, unbuckling his seatbelt and grabbing the back of the driver seat, sternly glaring into the back of Jarred’s head. All he can see from behind is Jarred shaking with what must be a pleasant chuckle. He isn’t usually privy to this side of Harry Styles, that’s for sure.

“TURN IT UP!” Louis bellows, grinning at the exasperated expression on Harry’s face when he does.

Jarred sighs like a parent after a long day with his exhausting kids and turns the volume up on the radio.

Louis practically jumps in his seat from the victory, jerking his head goofily to the beat. Meanwhile, Harry just groans with defeat, falling back against the seat without realising he’s sat inches from Louis now. When he watches Louis from the corner of his eye, he can’t help but grin at his enthusiasm. He’s singing all the words, slicing the air in front of him with his karate-esque hand gestures – _dance moves_ , Harry thinks. _What a complete dork_.

_God, I love him._

Harry gives in after that. Letting himself dance to the song (as best as he can in a seated position) along with Louis whose enthusiasm is positively infectious. With his head hung, hands clenched and eyes closed in faux concentration, Harry’s shoulders bop up and down to the beat. When he looks at Louis his eyebrows raise and he points at Harry, dramatically mouthing _I can’t feel my face when I’m with you – but I love it, but I love it._ Harry chuckles, hiding his blush by messing with his hair.

When the car turns a corner, Harry – still unbuckled – slides into Louis with a thud.

“Ever heard of personal space, Styles?” Louis snaps grumpily, but when he meets Harry’s eyes his façade crumbles, and he beams at him sincerely.

“No, actually,” Harry says in a very good impression of a sincere, deadpan tone, “People have that? I’ve just been going around like this my whole life!” He adds, leaning against Louis to emphasise his point. It just makes Louis laugh, shaking his head and turning away from Harry to look out the window.    

“Err– sorry to interrupt,” Jarred says from the front seat. He’s pretty good at making himself invisible, or maybe Harry simply forgot he was there on account of how wrapped up in Louis he is, “But we’ve arrived at the destination.”

Harry makes an audible ‘oh’, not even trying to hide how crestfallen he is to know Louis has to leave now. As the car slows to stop outside Louis’ London place, Harry leans across him to look at it through the tinted glass. They were already sitting close, even more so now.

“Garden’s grown a bit since last I was here.” Harry says quietly, his eyes a little glazed as he looks at the building. He supposes he wanted it to sound sort of funny – a light-hearted comment and nothing more. But his delivery is far from it. And it’s not lost to Louis either, the subtle tragedy in what he says. There’s so much of each other’s lives they don’t know. So much they missed. Things had been so bad that even working together, _touring the world_ together, wasn’t enough – they’d still been as distant as if they’d been on different continents. Harry feels he could spend the rest of his life trying to catch up, trying to relearn everything about Louis. He wouldn’t mind.

Louis doesn’t have anything to say to that, not with words anyway and he doesn’t let Harry feel all of it on his own. He places his hand gently on Harry’s knee and squeezes reassuringly. The moment he does, Harry’s gaze flicks from the window to Louis himself – staring almost. He can’t explain why his heart starts thumping in his chest so fast his lungs can’t even keep up. All he knows is that something changes the moment they look at each other.

Seconds pass and Louis doesn’t move his hand away from Harry’s leg. All the while Harry’s mind races a million miles a second. He’s sober enough to realise this can’t be a flippant gesture. Sober enough to think maybe Louis understands the significance of what he’s doing. Sober enough to think maybe – _just maybe_ – the hand on his waist in the party was no mistake either.

Could it be as he dreamed it? Does Louis feel it too?

 _How can he not,_ Harry answers himself. Because with the way Louis looks at him, his eyes wide and imploring, a subtle seriousness yet tender expression on his face – it’s not anything they can laugh off this time. Harry wonders if it ever was.

This isn’t a drunken mirage. This isn’t some kind of incredibly convincing wishful thinking. It’s real. All of it.

And _oh God,_ is it almost too much for Harry to take.  

With Louis’ hand upon his knee, their faces close and the silence making his ears ring with nerves – Harry thinks if he doesn’t do it now, there’s no way of knowing when the chance will come again. _If_ it ever will.

Louis’ eyes drift down to Harry’s lips, slow and tentative and Harry doesn’t have to think about it anymore. Doesn’t have to work himself up over wills and won’ts. Instead, he surges forward, eyes shut and lips parted – meeting Louis’. And any fear of reading Louis wrong, any notion that what he feels for Louis isn’t mutual – it’s shattered into oblivion. Because Louis kisses him back.

The first few seconds are completely daunting, like everything is riding on this single moment. Their lips crash together with a charged eagerness and Harry feels Louis’ hand tighten on his thigh. Harry can’t figure out how a kiss so fervent and intense can be so soft and tender all at once. It leaves Harry dizzy, his hands shaking slightly as he searches blindly for Louis. He finds him eventually, his hand gripping the back of Louis’ neck, pulling him closer.

When Harry deepens the kiss, Louis is quick to tug on Harry’s shirt collar, bringing him in tighter. Their lips press passionately, parting momentarily before Louis sighs back into it. If Harry had been standing, he’d have gone weak in the knees. Every nerve in his body is on fire with the adrenaline of it – like he can’t quite believe it’s real.

Louis’ lips are familiar and new all at once. It’s been so long since they’ve last done this, so much has changed and yet – it’s as if nothing has. Somehow, even after all this time, they still meld together in all the right ways. And it’s so good, so _fucking_ good. It feels like they’re only just starting when it ends.

It’s Louis who pulls back, before Harry is ready to stop. He stares, mouth agape and hair just a little messy thanks to Harry’s hands – completely altered by what they’ve just done. His expression is hard to read, but now that Harry is brought back to the present, he’s sure his face shows just as much shock as Louis’.

Harry swallows silently, shifts awkwardly with his hand running through his hair, readjusting the curls. Neither one of them voice what they’re thinking, rendered utterly speechless. Harry can see it in Louis’ face – the sheer panic and confusion over what just happened. The way he looks at him makes Harry feel like he’s under a microscope, completely exposed, utterly defenceless.

“Uh,” Louis begins, voice wavering before he clears his throat. His hand is at the door handle before he speaks again, “Thanks, uh, for the lift.”

“No problem.” Harry says hazily, unable to think of anything but just how flushed Louis is in the wake of his touch.

“See you… later. I guess.” Louis says awkwardly, averting Harry’s eyes as he steps out onto the curb.

“Goodnight, Louis.”

“G’night.”

The car door shuts with a jarring slam and Harry is alone. He sucks in a long, wobbly breath as he slumps against the back of the seat. He doesn’t even have the strength to watch Louis walk to his door from his view out the window. Not sure if he’ll ever be able to look at Louis again – not with the utter horror of Louis’ expression burnt into his retinas. While his mind spins, his lips tingle with the leftover buzz of the kiss and he almost has to touch them to be reminded that it’s not something he made up in his mind.

Trying to get over Louis, trying to keep things completely platonic – it all seemed so much easier when Harry wasn’t reminded of how good it is to kiss him. His cheeks flush just remembering how eager they’d both been, how they clung to one another without a care in the world. And it makes him wonder how something that feels so _right_ and so natural can have such disastrous consequences.   

Because there’s no doubt there’ll be consequences. History indicates just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... cliffhanger or what?! 
> 
> Again, sorry for the sporadic updates - I've had a bit on my plate lately (it's only getting worse as final assessments are in the next two weeks) but once uni is done for the year, expect much prompter updates! :)
> 
> • The start of May 2015 being the coldest in the UK since 1996 (this is true, except I really doubt anyone is interested enough to click a source haha!)  
> • [Harry really wanting trumpets in Olivia](https://youtu.be/LH0sjXvQOT8?t=33s)  
> • Harry is writing [If I Could Fly](http://onedirection.wikia.com/wiki/If_I_Could_Fly) (obviously)  
> • The video in the flashback is of course from [ Wellington](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMErdRgP1-E)™  
> • Rita Ora’s birthday is like, in November or something so that’s fictional since its very early May in the timeline. But having said that, there really are birthday party photo booth pictures of [Harry Styles, Rashida Jones and Kelly Osbourne](http://createastyle.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/harry-styles-cumple-1-createastyle.jpg) from Harry's 21st I believe ([Rita did attend his birthday like it's mentioned briefly in the fic!](https://www.instagram.com/p/yjzxkdtvB6/?taken-by=david.adcock&hl=en))  
> • Also she really did turn 25 in 2015!  
> • Rita’s red outfit that Harry describes was [inspired by one](http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/WkgjgzzVBWm/Rita+Ora+Birthday+Party+Box/kuS67j795Gl/Rita+Ora) she wore on her birthday a few years ago  
> • Harry is dancing like [this](http://warmfringe.tumblr.com/post/148173753136/malibuharry-x) in the car scene to [Can't Feel My Face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KEI4qSrkPAs) (yes the song was released a month after this party in real time, yes we’re going to ignore it)


	6. Strong

_‘When I’m not with you I’m weaker. Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong, that you make me strong? Think of how much love that’s been wasted, people always trying to escape it. Move on to stop their heart breaking.'_

For the first time in years, Louis thinks he might actually skip work for the day. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d skip the whole damn week. Maybe he’ll never show up to the studio again, if it means he can avoid facing Harry. Because the last person he wants to see when he arrives forty minutes late ( _fashionably late_ , he calls it) is Harry Styles. However, luck is not on Louis’ side today. Not sure if it ever has been, really.

He knows his cheeks redden when he spots Harry – feels his heart constrict with a strange kind of longing, mixed with complete guilt. Now he can’t even look at the man he loves. What a fucking disaster. And it’s all his damn fault.

Louis has avoided Harry before. Plenty, even. If the situation wasn’t so dire, he would be able to see the dark humour in how skilled he has gotten at evading Harry over the years. But it doesn’t feel the same this time. Not when things had gotten so _goddamn_ good. It’s all shattered now, Louis realises. Completely unfixable. What they did – what _he_ did… how can they come back from that? It’s one thing to carry the burden of unrequited love within himself for years, another to have to look into the eyes of the person when Louis is aware that they know he feels that way. It’s embarrassing; beyond that – it’s utterly mortifying in every respect.

“Tommo!” Liam calls, completely oblivious to Louis’ edginess. “What’d you get up to over the weekend? Didn’t see you all night at Rita’s!”

Louis wonders that if there is a God, he must _really_ hate him.

“Oh, you know. The usual.” Louis lies, sure his face has drained of colour at the question. The room isn’t paying attention at least: Niall and Julian are discussing the chords to one of the songs, and Harry has his head deep in his book, writing; lyrics, Louis supposes. Aside from looking up when Louis entered, Harry has been wholeheartedly preoccupied with his journal. So Louis isn’t the _only_ one avoiding the situation. Unlike Louis, though, Harry’s reason has got nothing to do with being madly in love.

“Got piss drunk, can’t remember a thing.” He forces a laugh, an orchestrated casualness that shows just how unnerved he is. He chances a glance at Harry, whose hair covers his expression –  yet his demeanour physically tenses. Louis’ fake smile falters and he clears his throat, staring at his feet.

“Figured as much.” Liam says good-naturedly, a smile that suggests nothing but sincerity. Liam has always been a very good wingman during Louis’ drunken adventures over the years. Louis couldn’t ask for a better clubbing mate, to be honest. He’s glad, at least, that Liam doesn’t see through the façade. Maybe he can convince Harry of it, too, and then things can go back to the way they were. Never mind the fact that he knows things have irreparably changed.

 _Fuck._ He shoves the thought deep down before he can let the emotion of it show in his features.

“Too bad. Sophia wanted to say hi, she hasn’t seen you or the lads in a while.” Liam says with a disappointed smile.

“Err– sorry ‘bout that. Next time, hey?”

The three hours pass excruciatingly slow. It feels like he’s on death row – every minute that ticks by is one minute closer to his impending demise. His heart sinks to his stomach every time Harry meets his gaze, an unsearchable something hidden behind the green. _What is he thinking? Does he hate me? Can he ever talk to me again?_ It’s so overwhelming that Louis finds himself rushing to leave before the allotted workshop time is up. He mumbles his excuses – figures none of it is believable anyway, so what’s the point in an elaborate lie. He doesn’t breathe easy until he’s home with no fear that Harry might chase after him.

... And it’s only one day into the working week. Perfect. _Absolutely brilliant._

When Harry calls that evening, Louis’ phone lighting up with the nickname and emoji, he ignores it. And when he flicks onto _the Great British Bake Off_ by mistake, he throws the remote at the TV, swearing loudly when it narrowly misses the plasma screen. His life might be in shambles, but he really can’t afford to replace thousands of dollars’ worth of a television set over a little spur of the moment rage.

He needs a distraction, he realises, as he stares blankly ahead whilst chewing at cold leftover pizza. It’s not the best dinner he’s had, that’s for sure. He considers briefly calling Oli – sure that he might be back in town by now, and up for a night out. The minute the desperate idea forms in his mind, however, he feels utterly sorry for himself. A night out would surely just end in a drunken call to Harry, a mistake he cannot allow. And anyway, the alcohol wouldn’t distract him. It’d only enhance the feelings rushing through his mind; feelings of heartbreak and shame and worst of all – overwhelming love. Because kissing Harry certainly didn’t defuse the intensity of his affections. It’s just yet another reminder of how utterly gone he is.

Louis sighs heavily, deciding he may as well channel his emotions into something productive. He pulls out his phone and starts typing into his notes. At first, it’s just a stream of consciousness – no sentence structure or sense behind it. This is how he brainstorms all of his songs. They start off as words or ideas all clumped together until he finds a common theme, forms it into something coherent, something reflecting a kind of poeticism. Or at least he tries.

He writes so that he doesn’t have to actually think about his heartache. He can detach from it, use it as fuel for lyrics he’s sure he won’t ever show anyone. His phone notes are full of lyrics that tell the secrets of his heart. His laptop, too, has numerous demos written and recorded by Louis alone that shall never see the light of day. And all of them, every single one – they were all for Harry. This time is no different.

Thumb hovering over the keyboard, Louis allows himself for the first time in twenty-four hours to really think back to the moment in the car. The way Harry had looked at him, the way the air around them seemed to constrict with everything Louis felt. How something in their locked gaze seemed to reach an understanding that talking with words could never. When it happened, Louis wasn’t thinking. He didn’t care that a single gesture, so small yet so monumental – his hand upon Harry’s thigh – could have lead to what it did. Didn’t care that it could ruin everything within seconds. The kiss could keep him up at night with how weak it makes him.

> _So hot that I couldn’t take it_
> 
> _Want to wake up and see your face_
> 
> _And remember how good it was being here last night_

It’s starting to take shape finally, the words on the screen. They tumble out without Louis even having to think.

> _Still high with a little feeling_

He pauses. The forefront of his mind floods with memories of the night – the way Harry took his hand and guided him to the rooftop; the low, comforting manner in which he spoke to Louis up there under the lights... every glance was laced with intoxication, a spark igniting when their eyes met. It wasn’t an exaggeration – it can’t have been. How could all of that have been in his head?

> _I see the smile as it starts to creep in_
> 
> _It was there, I saw it in your eyes_

It’s too much after that. Louis locks his phone, the onslaught of raw emotion causing tears to well in his eyes. He blinks them back, cursing into the empty room. He breathes through it, his cheeks flushed and his heart pumping hard in his chest. He decides an early night is in order, seeking the peacefulness of sleep to escape the chaos of his mind.

# …

Day two, Tuesday, is just as unbearable. Only, when the workshop is over and the London twilight lingers across the horizon – he isn’t afforded the luxury of escaping uninterrupted. He’s in the car park, searching through his bag for his car keys when Harry confronts him.

“Louis,” he announces his presence in his characteristically low, mellow tone. It’s soft, and draws Louis’ eyes to him instantly, though he regrets it. Harry was quiet enough for Louis to have gotten away with feigning ignorance. He can’t figure out what lurks behind Harry’s expression – the neutrality of his features flicker with something – is it pity? _Oh god, please don’t let it be pity._

“Harry–” Louis chokes, the faux pleasant surprise completely unconvincing, “I’ve really gotta go, mate.” He could almost wince at the friendly term, the poorest attempt at a casual distance he’s tried in a long time. He’d throw that word around back last year even, but now it feels stale at his lips.

“Louis, please don’t run from me.” Harry says weakly, stopping just short of a metre from Louis. He’s taller, but there’s a kind of dishevelled air about him that brings him down a few inches.

“M’not– I’m not _running,_ Harry. Jesus, I’m just– I want to go home, alright?” The snappiness in his voice is completely unwarranted. He regrets it immediately, but thinks maybe if he upsets Harry enough to stay away, then he can work through everything on his own. And then somehow he can return to Harry and be the best friend he deserves. No complications. No messy feelings to ruin everything. No accidental kisses in the backs of cars.

“Alright.” Harry says, his voice cutting into Louis with how cold it is. Harry clenches his jaw, and Louis hates it – hates that it draws his attention to the chiselled line of his face, right to his pink lips... “But Lou–” Harry almost swallows the nickname and it drives Louis mad, just watching his broken expression, knowing things are damaged between them already. _Please, no. I can’t lose him_. “Are we going to talk about what happened?”

Louis freezes, his stomach clenching at the mention of it. Harry seems to register the effect it has, seems to harden at the very sight of it.

“We can forget it, if you want,” Harry adds as an afterthought, before Louis can even offer up any words on the subject. He can’t figure out if it's Harry’s attempt at reassuring him, or an insurance policy – as if perhaps Harry wants to make sure Louis doesn’t get the wrong idea right off the bat. The idea makes Louis feel inconceivably heavy, as if he’s rooted to the cement beneath his feet with what it means.

_We can forget it._

Louis doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it, not for as long as he lives.

“Like…” Harry looks like he’s lost for words, awkwardly searching for the best way to let Louis down easy, “It shouldn’t have happened, I guess.” He waits for Louis to agree, shifting uncomfortably on the spot.

Louis swallows, feeling as if his heart is combusting in his chest from the pain. There’re no words to describe how it feels, this ache that floods over his entire body, that tells him nothing will ever be the same – not for him, not for Harry.

“Yeah…” He has to collect himself, hoping to God the hot tears in his eyes aren’t evident. He blinks them away the instant he feels them, assured that Harry doesn’t notice. He has to be proud of himself for that, the _talking_ thing, when he looks back on this; brain wracked with how and _why_ and all he’ll remember is the _look_ on Harry’s face and the fact that yeah, his heart was breaking to pieces right there just like it does in the movies, but at least he could _talk._ “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Harry looks at him as if the wind has been knocked out of him then, which would sting if Louis wasn’t already getting mad at him in his mind, if Harry hadn’t just casually suggested the kiss didn’t mean a thing. And then the expression is replaced with a mask Louis knows too well, the one that makes a lot more sense with the words he’s saying, the one that wants nothing more than friendship. Louis could poke and prod at that mask all he wants, trying to find something behind it, but he knows he just won’t like what he finds.

“I am?” Harry asks, the question (and the oddly placed vulnerability of it) catching Louis totally off guard. It doesn’t help with the bubbling fury, that question. It really doesn’t. All Louis wants to do is shake Harry by the collar of that stupid designer shirt and ask what the hell he’s playing at. Why he’s broken and nervous and aloof – how he could be that all at once while Louis crumbles in front of him.

“We were drunk. Honestly, it’s just stupid, isn’t it?” Louis tries to make his tone light, but the husk in it shows the quiver a little too prominently. He clears his throat and shrugs, attempting to physically rid himself of the nerves bundling within him. “We should forget the whole thing.” He says, and then with a crunch of gravel under his scuffing heels, “Right?”

“I wasn’t even drunk.” Harry says and it’s not in his usual, slow, casual voice. It’s sharp and bitter. He’s angry with Louis. Angry with him for blurring the lines again. It takes Louis by surprise – but it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as the words itself. Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t let their hands wander across each other’s bodies in a heated intimacy. _Friends don’t do that._

So _why_ had they done it?

Louis feels squeamish under Harry’s insistent gaze. He wishes Harry’s expression wasn’t so unreadable, wishes he could find something to reassure him; but there’s nothing to latch onto there – just a darkened glower and knitted brows. Sometimes it’s just as simple as what it looks like. As much as he wants to find a hidden meaning in Harry’s words – as much as he wants to be sure that if they talk about it, there will be some imaginary fantastical resolution at the end of it; the reality is, Louis sees a rejection lurking there. He’s sure Harry’s compassion will know no bounds – that he’ll promise Louis things between them won’t change. _You just got confused about us, that’s all._ He can hear it so clearly in his mind already. And he knows there won’t be any coming back from that – no matter how reassuring and empathetic Harry will be. Knows that’s the only way this is headed, if he doesn’t stop it. _So I need to stop it._  

“Wh–” Louis’ word dies at his lips, so completely nerve-wracked that he goes mute. He swallows, collects himself and tries again, “Wait, you weren’t?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so demanding – _accusational_ even – but he has to ask. Has to know if the kiss was a product of intoxicated temporary desire or something else. He searches Harry’s expression for any sign that he might’ve been completely wrong, that maybe–

“You know what, yeah,” Harry backtracks suddenly, sucking in a sharp breath, “I was kind of drunk,” he almost laughs, playing off his anger for flippancy. Or maybe, a small voice at the back of Louis’ mind says, maybe he really can just move on like that. Maybe it never mattered to Harry like it does to Louis, not in the way he wants it to anyway. “Stupid! _Really_ dumb.”

“Exactly,” Louis affirms confidently, overcompensating for how wrong all of this feels. And then, because he can’t let the shaky breaths even out, he huffs an awkward laugh. “Yeah, s’good… we’re on the same page, then.”

“Completely.” Harry nods robotically, “One hundred percent on the same page.”

“Great.” Louis grits back, the lie acidic on his tongue. He can see the whole scene playing out, like the Scrooge in _A Christmas Carol,_ a ghost on the sidelines. He can see himself pulling the panic cord, taking the coward’s way out, letting it all fall to bits before his very eyes. The worst of it is that Harry lets him, and that’s how Louis knows how Harry really feels, that’s how he knows it’s just Louis whose heart is breaking right here in this fucking _stupid_ car park.

They both go quiet.

“So… the thing…” Harry begins, clearing his throat and folding his arms in a way that tells Louis to stay back.

“Already forgotten.” Louis promises, his eyes stinging and his brain static and his body betraying just how _unforgotten_ it all is. _It’s better this way, it’s all better this way,_ he tells himself. _Pleads_ with himself. Because he thinks maybe if they don’t address it – if the subject is never completely breached – then they can go on in this delusion that nothing is tarnished between them.

Louis wants to fix this, though.

He’ll need a few days, sure – to withdraw into himself, lick his wounds and wallow in self pity. And then he can rock up to work next week and be the best friend to Harry that he always should have been; the one that didn’t kiss Harry after Leeds, the one that didn’t touch him the way friends aren’t supposed to when no one was looking, the one that didn’t ruin the best thing he ever had for the sake of his selfish affections. Maybe he won’t have the same spring in his step, maybe jokes won’t bounce easily between them – at least for a while – but it’s better than the alternative, it’ll be better than _before_. Louis likes to think so, anyway.

It’s his responsibility to do it right this time. To not lose the most important person in his life. If that means Harry never knows how he feels, if it means never being able to love someone quite like he loves Harry, then he’ll accept that fate; because he’s done it – life without Harry – and he can’t go back to that. He just can’t.

Silence.

Harry nods slowly, his furrowed brows suggesting he’s mulling over Louis’ words deeply.

“Okay.” He finally says. His voice has an edge to it and his expression looks hardened, aged somehow, “If that’s what you want.”

 

**Flashback: March 2013**

Louis has never been one to complain about his lot in life. As far as he’s concerned, he’s done pretty well for himself, actually. He’s got no reason to mope around or be ungrateful – not when he’s in a band with his best mates in the middle of their second world tour in less than three years.

He’s living his dream. Only somehow it’s starting to feel like a nightmare.

Zayn’s the first to notice the shift. Tour just isn’t the same when Louis’ lost that spark in his eyes. The rest of them can see it too, of course. His behavior started to darken around Christmas – and only worsened over New Years. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out it has something to do with Harry. Scratch that – _everything_ to do with Harry.

Things between them haven’t truly been the same since June, when management had a talk to them. A few days after, things seemed to bounce back – even if it was a little tentative. Louis didn’t flinch at Harry’s touch anymore, and he stopped acting surprised whenever Harry pulled him aside for a kiss while Eleanor was in the other room. But it didn’t mean everything was fine. Neither of them could talk about the elephant in the room. And by the time Taylor was on the scene, Harry and Louis were so bad at communicating that Louis spent hours wondering if he’d made it all up in his head. All the kissing and touching and loving looks. Because despite everything, they just couldn’t manage to face the truth.

So instead of talking about his feelings to the person who mattered most – Louis went to bars and got obnoxiously drunk. Sometimes he’d call Harry and yell into his answering machine about whether she made him feel as good as Louis did when they kissed. Sometimes he’d just cry into the dead line, wishing his life would mend itself, wishing he could flash forward to a time where love didn’t hurt anymore. The worst part was how selfish he knew he was being, because the jealousy he felt whenever he saw Taylor sling her arm around Harry, every time they could laugh together openly – encouraged and photographed while Louis was left behind – it was an all consuming jealousy that he had no right to feel. Harry wasn’t his to be jealous over. They were just friends. It was Louis’ mistake that they would never be more than that. And although Taylor is gone now – just another woman to add to the string of rumoured lovers to Harry’s name – it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

He’s going to break up with Eleanor. He realised it the moment he first saw Harry and Taylor together. It had never been a conscious thought – more of a slowly forming idea that niggled at him – that didn't let him sleep the night through, that didn't let him enjoy his alone time with Harry like he should have been. Louis has wanted to break up with Eleanor since the first day she became his girlfriend. It only took the possibility of Harry drifting from him into another person's arms to be the final kick in the arse; the twist in his gut just couldn't be excused any longer. It’s love. It always has been.

In the meantime, with things worsening with Harry – even on tour, which used to be an escape for both of them – Louis is left hopeless. He doesn’t know how to act when they’re together on stage, and he’s abandoned his old tour rituals within the first week; things like singing to Harry on stage, changing lyrics mid-song to suggestive, even flirtatious alternatives. The habits he has when there aren’t thousands of eyes open them – when a show is over and it’s just them backstage… Even those are quickly forgotten, replaced with a strange formality that leaves a bad taste in Louis’ mouth.

“Come sleep on the bus with me.” Zayn says one day on the tour, when everyone else has gone up to their freshly laundered sheets in cold, stark hotel rooms. Last time they were living out of hotel rooms, Harry and Louis would share. Management hadn’t allowed that this time, which made it exponentially harder for Louis to get Harry alone – for them to relight whatever has slowly been burning out these past few months.

“The bus? The _tour_ bus?”

“Yeah!” Zayn smiles at Louis, shy and sweet. It’s enough to tug at the edges of Louis’ lips too.

“You do realise we’re staying in a five-star hotel right?” Louis counters, “The sheets are _Egyptian cotton_. Why would I stay in a bloody bus?”

Zayn chuckles lightly, pointedly ignoring the accusation in his tone.

“I dunno, it’s sort of comforting.” He pauses, and when Louis doesn’t make fun of him, he figures it's safe to continue, “We’re movin’ around so much I get home sick. The bus kind of… helps, I guess.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, just mulls over Zayn’s offer. The tour bus is kind of a home away from home, now he thinks about it. He’s made friends with crew and security during their time travelling, it’s got to be better than a hotel full of people he doesn’t know. A hotel with a person he wishes he knew.

“It’d be fun if you were there. Like camping.”

Louis laughs, somewhat disbelievingly. Zayn is so quiet and keeps to himself so often. When Harry and Louis became best friends right at the beginning, Louis never thought he’d be in this position – sitting alone, seeking comfort in the _shy_ one. Louis has always been so vocal and in everyone’s faces, Zayn must see how circumstances have changed him.

“Promise you won’t hog the FIFA controller?” Louis finally says, and it’s as good as a ‘yes’ that Zayn’s ever gonna get. Zayn knows it because he laughs and shakes his head a little in weary disagreement, though by the slight twitch of his lips Louis knows he’s just teasing.

“I _never_ agreed to that.”

Louis laughs instantly, and he thinks – thank God he’s got people like Zayn to bring him laughter at a time like this.

Tour isn’t so bad after that. Zayn and Louis find a comfortable balance out there in the hotel car park of whatever country they’re in that day – squished on the bean bags and laughing into the night. They’re both messy as hell – and it's usually days before anyone cleans up the empty chip packets or tries to clean the energy drink stains out of the carpet. And even then, it’ll usually be someone from the crew – come to check on them with a tutting of the tongue and a shake of the head.

Louis feels much younger on the bus with Zayn, Like it’s the first year of the band again – just two lads bickering and laughing over what show to watch on the dodgy little in-cabin TV or who gets to play on FIFA first. They were always good friends, but now Zayn feels more than that. Like a brother.

On nights where Louis feels down about things with Harry, Zayn just passes him a blunt and they drink in the cold night air in a comfortable silence. That’s the thing about Zayn – he’s good at being there for you, even if he doesn’t say many words of consolation. Just his presence, that wise kind of glint in his eyes or the nudge of an elbow against skin to remind Louis of some funny inside joke of theirs – it’s reassuring enough on it’s own.

Zayn invites Louis out whenever he decides to have night on the town, but sometimes Louis declines, preferring to spend some quality alone time to mope (though he just says he’s ‘tired’). When Zayn comes back later, creeping quietly into the tour bus in an effort not to wake his mate, Louis is far too deep in slumber to stir. He doesn’t say anything the next morning about how Louis slept in Harry’s bunk instead of his own. Not when it happens the first time, or the second, or the third. He just sighs at the sight, and hopes one day Louis can heal enough to be able to find comfort in his own bed.

They’re high as a kite when Louis finds the courage to tell Zayn. The boys have been teetering around the subject for weeks now. Louis can’t count the number of times Zayn gave him that pitiful look, the one that told him he knew without Louis having to say the words aloud. It was always obvious, he knew that. Zayn didn’t just ask him to join him on Bus 1 for nothing. Didn’t behave particularly compassionate and patient toward Louis’ bantering antics for nothing either. It’s obvious.

_Just not obvious to the person that matters most._

Louis sucks in the smoke before handing the blunt to Zayn. They sit in the bus after the show, as per usual; the windows down to let in cool fresh air. They’re tired and the weed hazes everything, makes Louis feel sort of sluggish and numb to what they’re talking about.

“I’m in love with him.” Louis admits, staring off vacantly so he doesn’t have to meet Zayn’s eyes. He can feel his stare though, patient and persistent at his side. “I’m fucking in love with Harry.” He elaborates, this time with a venom that wasn’t there. Like maybe if he’s angry about it, it can disguise the pain of it. It doesn’t work, he knows it. The tears are hot at his eyes and he blinks them back, sucking in a drag of the blunt Zayn hands back to him.

“I knew.” Zayn finally says, because none of it is a revelation. He doesn’t ask about what that means for Eleanor, how long Louis has felt this way or what has happened between Harry and him – doesn’t even ask Louis to define his sexuality. He doesn’t ask anything that’s hard or unnecessary, despite the fact that he must know Louis has the answers. Because none of it matters to Louis anymore. _The technicalities_. He’s in love with Harry Styles, and that’s all he has time to think about.

“It sucks.” Louis snips, still not meeting Zayn’s eyes.

Zayn just nods slowly – is he agreeing, or just showing Louis that he cares? Both, probably.

“Does he know?”

Louis looks over at him at that, a kind of confused, yet affronted look about him. “He– he has to.” There’s an insecurity in the way he says it, and he gulps before he speaks again, “Of course he does.”

“But have you told him?” Zayn reiterates, his voice levelled and calm. Louis always forgets how good it is to talk to Zayn about these things – how rational and empathetic he is.

“Not–” Louis has to stop before he’s begun, his throat constricting. He looks away from Zayn, fidgets a second. “Not with words.”

He feels the hot flush of embarrassment in his cheeks. He’s never admitted to anyone – even in such a roundabout, subtle way – about how things are with Harry. Or… how things were. They’ve not kissed, not held hands – not even spoken properly in weeks. Louis realizes how naïve it was for him to believe that the end of the Taylor Swift PR stunt and the beginning of tour would help things.

Zayn sighs and gives Louis a pained expression. The blunt they’re sharing has almost reached its end, and despite having taken plenty of drags, Louis feels anything but light and at ease.

“I’m sorry, Louis.” Zayn finally says. And it’s the worst response he could have given Louis. Because Louis would give anything for Zayn to tell him not to worry. For him to promise things are still fixable – that if they just talked it all out, maybe Louis wouldn’t have to lose Harry for good. He wants Zayn to pat him on the back and say – _don’t worry abou_ _t it,_ _man! All’s not lost_. But Zayn doesn’t.

“Don’t tell anyone.” Is all Louis can manage. His voice is choked and wavering, but he doesn’t try to hide it. He’s passed caring about keeping up appearances. He lets the tears run down his cheeks, staring straight ahead. It’s not a sob, not a wailing wet cry of agony. It’s just a silent, steady stream of tears.

“Course I won’t.” Zayn tells him, soft and understanding.

It’s the first and last time Louis ever talks about it.

# …

Harry leaves Louis alone after that. Louis can’t decide whether the silence is good or bad. Before their conversation in the parking lot, Harry called three times after the party. He even left a message – though a vague one at that – wishing Louis well and hoping to see him soon. Louis had closed his eyes and sat in quiet contemplation for five minutes after he heard Harry’s deep, compassionate tone. But there’re no calls anymore. And Louis starts to feel a bit sore and sorry for himself after the sixth replay of Harry’s voice message that day alone. Enough is enough.

On Wednesday afternoon, Louis thinks maybe his luck is finally changing. After all the time working in the studio together as a four-pair to get the ball rolling, the reigns have been loosened enough. It’s not uncommon for Louis and Liam to go off together to write. They’ve done it on several records before this. And it couldn’t come at a better time. The excuse will allow him to avoid Harry for the next few days at the very least.

Immersing himself in writing is therapeutic, to say the least. Liam doesn’t mention Rita’s party again, to which Louis is thankful, and overall it’s the first time in days that Louis hasn’t caught himself daydreaming about Harry’s lips against his own. They write and they laugh and Louis can forget his burdens – until the day is over and he goes home alone, the weight of the week heavy as ever before.

He’s watching TV when he pulls up Zayn’s contact for the first time in weeks. Apart from seeing Zayn on the weekend, Louis hasn’t spared much thought to him. Sure, he’d been pissed over the news of his solo deal – he had every right to be – but actually seeing Zayn in the flesh? It brought a whole new level to how Louis felt toward his ex band mate. He’s trying not to be petty. He’s trying to understand what it’s like for Zayn. All he can think is of Harry’s reassuring words on the rooftop _don’t you think he looks healthy?_ And that’s just another reason Louis loves Harry – because he knows he’s right. Zayn did look better that night than he had for months in the band.

Louis almost texts him. _Almost._ The opportunity is there – his fingers hovering over the contact. But he realises he has nothing he can say. What _could_ he say? _Hi Zayn, I know you saw me and Harry holding hands at the party. We actually kissed, too. So now he knows, after all these years. Now he knows how madly in love I am. And I’ve ruined everything._ It’s all so stupid. He remembers a time when Zayn was the only one he could talk to about things with Harry. Now he’s the last.

So instead of swallowing his pride, instead of taking the time and patience to construct a message – he opts for the easy, more passive aggressive option. He stalks Zayn’s Twitter.

Louis should really have learnt by now when to shut up. He’s been in enough Twitter feuds to know when to pick his battles. Only thing is, he picks every single one. So when he sees the picture of Naughty Boy and Zayn with the caption ‘replace this’ he can’t help but take it personally. He knows what the DJ is trying to say – knows it’s a deliberate sly dig at the band trying to get their footing after Zayn’s departure. He’s not a fucking idiot. And he’s not going to let it slide.

Sometimes he forgets he has a follow count of millions and that anything he says or does is seen by everyone. Sometimes he forgets that actions have consequences. Sometimes he forgets that there are people on the receiving end of his flippant remarks with feelings too.

He doesn’t forget that today. He’s aware of it. He just chooses to ignore it. 

> Remember when you were 12 and you used to think those Mac filters for your pictures were cool haha ! Some people still do HA!

It actually lifts his spirits a little.

And it goes on lifting his spirits as the whole world watches his argument with Naughty Boy. Not because he likes fighting, but because he knows he’s right – and there’s a strange sort of satisfaction in letting everyone know. That is, until Zayn puts his two cents worth in.

> @Louis_Tomlinson remember when you had a life and stopped making bitchy comments about mine ?

Louis wants to throw his phone at the wall when he sees it.

“He fucking didn’t,” He hisses to himself, shaking his head in disbelief, “No fucking way.” He almost laughs, he’s that angry. And it takes every fibre of his being not to text Zayn directly – to tell him to go fuck himself. _I have a fucking life. It’s the one you fucking ran away from. Remember? My life is brilliant. Fuck you._ Suddenly he wishes he was back at the party on the weekend – before everything became a mess with Harry – before anyone could stop him from saying what he wanted to say. If only he’d told Zayn then exactly what he thought of him _. Fuck_ being the better person. _Fuck_ trying to remain civil. Fuck all of it.

The text banner pops up for a second, and it’s a message from Niall.

> **what the hell is happenin with you and zayn on twitter ?**

And then a minute later:

> **mate! Call me !!**

He ignores Niall, at least for now, staring intently at Zayn’s tweet. It’s _kind of_ funny. He can pretend so, anyway. Zayn sounds like a petulant child, not a grown man. It would just take a few words to bring him down off that pedestal. Only a few. It’s not as if Louis is beneath it. He _started_ it after all.

But Louis thinks inexplicably of Harry – of his soft hand guiding him away from confrontation in the party, of his soothing voice and _just_ as soothing advice… just of Harry. And what he’d think if he was here; sidled up to Louis on the couch, maybe his hand squeezing Louis’ thigh reassuringly, maybe he’s rubbing gentle circles into the palm of Louis’ hand just to distract him – snap him out of his angry trance. He’d tell him to let it go. It’s not worth it.

Louis looks down at the unpublished Twitter rebuttal that’ll destroy whatever crumbling remains are left of his broken friendship with Zayn Malik. He thinks of Harry and he deletes it. It’s just not worth it.

# …

Liam knows exactly why Louis arrives at his place late the next day looking like death warmed up. He knows, because of course, the whole damn world does. Or at least, anyone bothering to keep up with celebrity Twitter drama. It’s not as if Louis thinks he’s the centre of the universe – life goes on whether Zayn Malik and Louis Tomlinson resolve their social media feud or not. But his mentions have been blowing up for hours now, and even his family have texted to see what’s going on. It’s a PR nightmare – or at least that’s what management called it on the phone this morning, so he’s taking a bit of a break from Twitter. He tries not to think about it much.

Louis falls into Liam’s plush couch like a man coming home after a long work day. Except it’s midday. And work’s barely begun. Liam just watches him a second, maybe wondering if he should bring up the whole Zayn thing or not. Apparently he decides against it, because he settles beside Louis and starts rifling through his work materials.

“Actually, I’ve, uh… been workin’ on something.” Louis says nervously, scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh nice, show us then!” Liam says, enthused.

Louis hesitates, before pulling out his phone and handing it over for Liam to read. He hasn’t written much since he last tried, the attempt nearly bringing him to tears. But it’s been a few days since then, and he’s less vulnerable. Anyway, the lyrics have potential.

“It’s not much, just some…” he trails off, watching Liam as he reads.

“You got a melody yet?”

“Kind of.” Louis says and when Liam does nothing but wait, eyebrows half raised, Louis hums the tune.

Liam nods reassuringly. “I like it. D’you wanna work on that one, then?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

Liam almost laughs. He’s written with Louis plenty before, about very personal and touching things for both of them. If anyone is going to see Louis’ sensitive side, it’s Liam. “I don’t mind. We’ve basically finished _History_ anyway.”

There’s a short silence – Liam pulling out a notebook and his phone to record a voice memo. Louis starts scribbling things down and Liam cranes his neck to see what he’s writing. It’s a follow on from what he’s already got.

> _Stumbled into the dark_
> 
> _With my empty heart_

He frowns. It’s not quite right, but he isn’t sure how to tweak it.

“Here,” Liam offers, and then he’s writing something in the margins.

> _I was stumbling,_
> 
> _Looking in the dark_
> 
> _With an empty heart_

“Works better with the tempo.” Liam explains and Louis nods firmly.

The lyrics he has so far are pretty grim, he’ll admit. There’s nothing much for him to be positive about, anyway. He just needs to let it all out. But the more they brainstorm, the more they edit and add to the page – the more he just thinks of Harry. Of what it was like to kiss him. He’s been trying so hard not to think about how it felt. Because if he thinks about it, he gets utterly lost in the memory. Gets lost in the feel of it – Harry’s hair falling against Louis’ cheek, tickling almost. The firm, yielding contact of their lips, the silk of Harry’s collar scrunched in Louis’ hands –

He has to snap out of it when he hears Liam’s voice echoing into the memory.

“This bit should be a bit more… upliftin’. What d’you think?” Liam asks, gesturing to a section of the song. “Like…” he begins, and starts scribbling, “Not sure what sort of tone we’re goin’ for, but…”

“No, that’s great.” Louis manages, trying to stay as present as he can without letting the lyrics get to him. He underestimated just how raw all of these feelings still are – how baring his soul felt after everything that’s happened.

“Okay, let’s go from the top.” Liam says, looking over what they’ve written. He starts the beat by tapping his heel against the wooden floorboards and then his hand against his thigh.

> _Make a little conversation,_
> 
> _So long I’ve been waiting,_
> 
> _To let go of myself and feel alive._

Louis and Liam sing the lyrics softly, reading them off the page. He’s glad Liam isn’t concentrating on him, because he can’t help but let the emotions of the words show on his face.

> _So many nights I thought it over,_
> 
> _Told myself I kind of liked her,_
> 
> _But there was something missing in her eyes_

He wonders if Liam knows how exposed Louis is right now. Sure, Louis has written love songs before. He’s written songs about undying love and love that’s on it’s last breath. He’s written songs about sex and friendship and everything in between. This is so different, though. He can’t hide how different it is. Liam must be able to sense it – in Louis’ darting eyes and fidgety hands.

> _But you say_
> 
> _You feel the same_
> 
> _Could we ever be enough?_
> 
> _Baby we could be enough._

The lyrics _are_ uplifting – and he wishes he lived in a version of reality where they could be true. Where Harry felt the same, and nothing in the world could get between them. Where they really didn’t need anything but each other.

The single tear falls into Louis’ lap before he’s realised he’s crying at all. His voice tapers off, and he clears his throat loudly – trying as he’s been doing all week, to hold back the flood gates. But they just can’t be held back forever, and in tapping into something that’s been dormant a long time, in dredging up those feelings he’s been trying so hard to overcome – well. It’s no wonder he starts to cry.

Liam might be oblivious to a lot of things, but he’s no fool. His attention falls on Louis instantly.

“Sorry,” Louis says quickly, “I’m good, just had somethin’ stuck in me throat,” He tries to laugh, rubbing vigorously at his eyes, “Keep goin’.”

There’s a hesitation – like maybe Liam wants to press Louis. But he decides against it, his attention returning to the writing. Maybe he thinks Louis is just tired, strained from everything – and definitely from the confrontation with Zayn – and that it has nothing to do with the lyrics.

“What d’you think should go after this?” Liam asks pointing at a line and speaking a lot less professional and a lot more tentative. Like he’s worried Louis might take offence somehow.

“Err,” Louis is thankful for the question, something that’s forcing himself out of the dark corners of his mind and back into reality. He can almost feel the waterfalls of tears wanting, pushing against his strength to hold them back. They’ve subsided for now. “Uh,” he frowns intently down, the lyrics forming in his mind as he tries to think of something – anything – that’ll calm him down. But all he can think about is Harry. “And it’s alright,” he says, Liam waiting intently, “It’s alright… calling out for somebody to hold tonight.”

Liam makes an agreeable kind of noise, seemingly beginning to scribble quickly as inspiration flows.

“When you’re lost…” Louis’ voice quivers, and it’s like he can’t quite swallow properly.

“When you’re lost, I’ll find the way.” Liam finishes, a kind of reassuring way about it. It almost feels like he’s telling Louis, rather than suggesting a lyric.

“I’ll be your light.” Louis mumbles, eyes glazed over and lost deep in thought. He can feel Liam’s stare and suddenly the room feels like it’s closing in on him. Like if he ran, he’d never be fast enough in attempting to escape what he’s feeling.

He doesn’t want to cry. He hates crying. He hates crying in front of others and he hates crying when there’s nothing else to do, because crying makes his pain _real._ Crying means he just can’t take it anymore. He’s breakable. And in Liam’s living room, writing a song about Harry – the same Harry that Louis will never stop loving, not ever – well. Louis breaks.

“Whoa – Louis – what’s the matter?” Liam’s voice finds it’s way to him, even when his ears are ringing and his heart is thudding loud and demanding in his chest. He can’t see his friend’s expression – his head in his hands as his whole body shakes with the tears – but he’s sure Liam must look confused and worried.

Louis doesn’t answer Liam, just lets the room go quiet, the only sound his muffled sobs. He hasn’t let it out like this before. And once it’s out – it’s hard to reel back in. Hard to control and stifle. But that’s okay, Louis allows, his face wet and hot. It’s okay, because sometimes you just need to cry.

Fuck, he _really_ needs to cry.

“Louis,” Liam says again, softer and quieter and Louis feels his hand gently on his upper back. The contact is startling, but Louis remains hunched over with his face hidden in his hands.

The two of them stay like that; Liam’s hand patting gently against Louis’ shoulder blades, Louis shaking through wave after wave of tears. It’s minutes before Louis’ crying slows down a bit – turns from panic-stricken to something more tired and weak.

“It’s happening all over again,” Louis says when he’s finally able to make a coherent sentence. He says it drearily, like all the life has been sucked from him. He pulls his hands away and attempts to sit up straighter. “It’s happening all over again and I can’t stop it, I can’t–”

“Louis,” Liam cuts across, sternly knitted brows and down turned lips, “What’s happening again? Talk to me, mate.”

“Why am I such a fucking idiot?” He’s completely nonsensical, but he’s beyond caring. The more he gives words to his thoughts, the more frantic he becomes. “I did this last time and look where that got us!” His hands fling upward as he dramatically gesticulates, a cold sort of laugh escaping him. It’s almost hysterical, and it only worries Liam more.

“Louis – I don’t know what you mean. Did what? Got _who_ _?_ ”

“Fuck,” Louis spits, the tears uncontrollable. He’s wiping them away angrily, trying to turn his body away from Liam in shame. “What am I supposed to do? I thought I could do it – I thought I was fine, but I’m not. I’m so fucking not fine, Liam.”

“Okay, slow down, Louis. You’re worrying me.” Liam is hovering closer now, like he wants to bring him into a hug, but he can’t be sure if it’ll set Louis off. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Louis shuts his mouth then, his jaw clenched and eyes staring off. He can’t tell Liam. He just can’t. How could he? Where would he even _begin?_ Because the disaster doesn’t start and end with the kiss on the weekend. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. And Louis just can’t tell Liam all of it.

“I need a cigarette.” Louis pronounces in the thick tone of someone who's been crying for hours. Only, he’s not been afforded that relief.

He stands quickly and leaves Liam in the living room, looking dumbfounded. It’s not long before Liam follows suit though, hovering at the side door and watching Louis light his cigarette with such an ardent concentration, it’s as if he’s doing a much harder task. Louis doesn’t look at him, just sucks in each drag with hollowed cheeks and a dead stare.

Eventually the cool breeze dries the tears on Louis’ face, and his flush lightens. And then he doesn’t look so much like he’s been crying – his former self restored even if just a fraction. He doesn’t want to talk about it and Liam knows him well enough to sense that. Instead they just stand there, unspoken comfort written all over Liam’s face. Maybe Louis didn’t have it in him to tell Liam. Maybe he couldn’t confide or share that his heart is breaking. But unlike Zayn, Liam is _here_. He’s here and he’s not going anywhere. Louis isn’t alone. He has Liam. And Louis is filled with such a fond appreciation for his friend that it’s almost as good as if he’d told him everything.

“Ready to go back inside?” Liam asks, once Louis’ cigarette is burnt to the quick. He stamps it out before nodding.

In silence, Louis and Liam continue to work over the song. They tweak a few more lyrics, add a verse here and there. For the most part, they focus on the instrumental – things like what bass line they want and how they’ll build to the chorus. _The chorus_. It doesn’t feel right yet.

“It’s missing something,” Liam notes. He hums the tune, his head nodding to the beat, “It goes down kind of. There should be somethin’ that comes after it.”

“Like an afterthought?”

“Yeah, kind of. Got any ideas?”

Louis thinks. He thinks about how he felt in Holmes Chapel – a place that was new and in many respects should have felt foreign. Somehow, though, he never felt out of place. He thinks of every time he was unsure in the studio over a lyric, or direction the band wanted to take; of every time he felt a little lost... But something always reassured him. He even thinks of the party – surrounded by people he doesn’t know and bombarded by music that’s too loud he can’t even hear himself think. All of it – the past several months – and even the years he’s been trying to forget. Because there’s always _him_.

Harry is always there. And he always makes Louis feel at home.

Louis leans forward and writes something on the bottom of the page, right beneath the line, ‘You’ll never feel like you’re alone’.

> _I’ll make this feel like home_

When Liam reads it but doesn’t speak, Louis feels kind of nervous. He can’t figure out what his expression means – the frown coupled with an air of disbelief.

“Is it– is it bad? D’you not like it?”

“No, no,” Liam assures, scratching his neck as he’s leaning forward, “It’s not that at all. It’s really beautiful.”

“Oh,” Louis swallows, “Thanks, Liam.”

“It’s funny, actually.” Liam says, not looking at Louis but still staring intently at the words. As if he’s trying to remember something he’s forgotten.

“Funny?” Louis asks, and he tries not to sound snappish – because he can’t imagine there’s anything funny about what he’s feeling.

“Just reminds me of somethin’ Harry said to me once.”

Louis’ heart falls to the pit of his stomach. Because it’s one thing to be thinking about Harry all day and another for it to be brought to light – by Liam of all people. He has to force a poker face before he speaks.

“Harry?”

“Yeah,” Liam raises his eyebrows, as if he just recalled an important detail, “About _you_ come to think of it.”

“Me?” Louis repeats, looking completely affronted, “Why were you talkin’ about _me?_ ”

“Somethin’ about how… ah, what was it…” Liam trails off and it takes all Louis has not to hit him for being such a complete ditz.

He waits.

“We were talkin’ about how being cooped up with just us four lads can be a bit… y’know, crazy at times on tour, y’know,” Liam is talking so slow, so carelessly – he has no idea Louis waits on his every word with baited breath, “But Harry said with you it was a bit different,” He pauses, seemingly remembering a small tidbit, “That’s right! He was saying it’s more like when he’s with family. Didn’t really know what he meant, to be honest with you. I mean, aren’t we all a bit like brothers? I swear you’d had a massive row as well, actually.”

“When was this?” Louis’ voice raises an octave, trying to remain absolutely calm on the outside while inside he’s screaming. He blatantly ignores Liam’s casual mention of a fight, the memory of it so distant yet still so painful to recall. He’s right, of course. They did have a massive row – so why did Harry mention him like that?

“Hmm… gotta be last year I think it was?”

Louis feels sick. _Last fucking year?_

“But we weren’t even–” He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. _But we weren’t even talking last year._ “Are you _sure_ that’s what he said?”

“Pretty sure, yeah. We were talkin’ about bein’ homesick and he said– y’know he said when he’s with you he doesn’t worry about it as much,” Liam shrugs, as if he isn’t telling Louis what he’s waited his whole life to hear, “It’s like he’s already home.”

_Like he’s already home._

If he thought what Liam initially said stung, no words can describe Louis’ feelings in the aftermath of what Liam says then. His words echo in Louis’ head and it’s a wonder how he doesn’t throw up or faint right there on the spot. He swears he heard Liam wrong. He _must_ have. Because the notion that Harry ever considered Louis like _home_ – ever thought of Louis as a consolation, something safe and comforting… The notion that Harry thinks of Louis the way Louis thinks of him? _Oh god._ It just can’t be real.

“He said _that?_ ” Louis asks, his voice cracking.

“Yep.”

“About _me?_ ” He reiterates, needing to make sure there’s no room for misconceptions – he’s done far too much assuming that he’s not about to do it now.

“Yeah, well, I mean, we were talkin’ a lot of things, weren’t we? But I remember that bit perfectly.”

 _“Last year?_ ”

“ _Yes_ , mate. That’s what I said!” Liam laughs then, baffled by the intensity in which Louis is taking his remark.

Louis is speechless. This means so much more than Liam even realises. He wants to curse at Liam for keeping this information to himself this whole time – but then he remembers it's not as if Liam is to know its significance. He doesn’t know what used to happen between Louis and Harry. He doesn’t know what’s _still_ happening. This is so _fucking_ monumental. It’s as if Louis is having a complete epiphany – right there on Liam Payne’s stupid old couch.

If Harry said this last year at a time when they didn’t even _talk_ anymore, when Louis wondered if they’d ever talk again… in 2014 they didn’t fucking know each other. But to Harry, Louis was still like coming home…

And Louis knows now. That Harry loved him. That Harry very well could still love him. _Holy shit._

“You alright, mate? You look a bit poorly...”

His entire body is filled with dread as he realises what a fucking mistake he’s made. The blood drains from his face but somehow his cheeks remain hot and he feels dizzy with anxiety. Harry loves Louis back. It wasn’t a mirage this whole time. He didn’t make it up in his head. It all makes sense – Harry inviting him to Holmes Chapel, the conversation they had on the couch, all the little touches Louis thought Harry was oblivious to – or worse, didn’t care enough to realise what they meant to Louis. The pained look on Harry’s face in the parking lot; it wasn’t pity – it was despair. All of it makes sense now. _Harry loves me back. He loves me back._

_…And I told him to forget the kiss._

_Oh my god._

_What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On top of all the sh*t I've been going through (don't know why that's bleeped when Louis says shit five hundred times this chapter), this chapter was actually the hardest to edit. I actually changed around a lot of it that I didn't do with past chapters, added a lot more dialogue and so forth. So I hope it's up to scratch for you guys.
> 
> And listen, I totally know the whole 'Home' thing gets overplayed, but this is canon compliant and he really did have an emotional moment writing it... I just dramatised it, that's all (what are Gemini's for!?).
> 
> • Zouis twitter fight… well… we all know that happened but [here’s](https://twitter.com/zaynmalik/status/595985940461580288?lang=en) one of the tweets from it  
> • Louis and Zayn did used to sleep on the tour bus together ([and got Bus 1 tattoos](http://www.kpopstarz.com/articles/37742/20130814/zayn-malik-tattoos-louis-tomlinson-direction.htm))  
> • The Haylor stunt... (lets not talk about it)  
> • Louis having an [emotional moment](http://onedirection.wikia.com/wiki/Home#Background) during the writing of ‘Home’ with Liam.


	7. Change My Mind

_‘Never felt like this before, are we friends or are we more? As I’m walking towards the door I’m not sure. But baby, if you say you want me to stay, I’ll change my mind… Cause I don’t wanna know I’m walking away if you’ll be mine.’_

Life isn’t like the movies. In fact, it’s so far from it that Harry considers suing them for feeding him all that false hope over the years. Because what happens after all the build up; after the intimate glances and tentative gestures and the climactic kiss – it isn’t as simple as _Love Actually_ taught him. There’s no fading to black, there’s no poppy love song as the credits roll, knowing all is well and will be forever more. It’s just not like that in real life.

Instead, there’s just silence. He tries calling Louis once after party, but it goes straight to voicemail. On Monday, Louis is late to the studio, and he doesn’t say a thing to Harry the entire time. The longer it goes on, the more impending dread starts to settle in. It’s the first thing Harry feels when he wakes in the morning, and the last thing keeping him up at night. He just wants answers. And it feels like the more he waits for one, the more concrete the silence is. Like it’s an answer in itself. It’s not the answer Harry wanted. Not the answer he was so sure Louis gave him in the car when he kissed him back.

The second day into the working week, Harry decides he can’t take it anymore. He strides after Louis into the parking lot, determined as ever to swallow his fears and confront the situation head on. Only, those fears are just confirmed. The moment he garners Louis’ attention; he knows he’s doomed. Just by the uneasy look in Louis’ eyes, the awkwardly placed ‘mate’ and the series of lies afterward. Louis regrets it. It’s as plain and simple as that.

Harry tries to hide how he feels, mask it behind a tight jaw and glowering stare. Louis must feel the despair radiating  from every fibre of Harry’s being – maybe that’s why he looks so pitying, maybe that’s why he says those words with such a soft sadness. _We should forget the whole thing._

On the way back to his place that night, Harry wonders if he’s a complete idiot. He must be, surely, to have read Louis so wrong at the party. He’d been so certain at the time – so pumped up with hot air, somehow filled with a confidence he thought he’d lost when it came to Louis. Now it’s all come crashing down. Harry’s cheeks redden as he thinks about it, completely mortified that he let himself believe he ever had a chance. That by being bold and vocal – _I wasn’t even drunk_ – he’d actually get himself anywhere worthwhile.

He’s returned to the real world now, not the one he made up with jump cuts and the beautiful soundtrack over the top. Louis doesn’t love him back. And all the looks, all the accidental touches, all the hints in his words – they were all just that: accidental. Because Harry should have listened up there on the roof top, the lights glinting above them and alcohol working its way into the clarity of his rationale. He should have fucking listened to what Louis was saying. _You’re my best friend._

Nothing more, nothing less.

Now he has to pay the price for his delusions. He’s worried it’s cost him everything.

If it was up to Harry, he’d be tackling the issue right now – talking it through with Louis and promising he won’t ever cross that line again. If he doesn’t convince Louis in time that everything is fine, that they’re capable of bouncing back, apologise for the careless blunder and all the stress it’s caused – if he doesn’t do that in time, then he might just lose Louis for good. _Again._

But Louis is his own person and he handles things completely differently. When he doesn’t answer the third call from Harry, nor respond to the voice message he leaves, Harry knows he has to give him time. Pushing him won’t fix anything and for all he knows, it’ll just make things worse. So he accepts the silence and prays that it isn’t permanent.

Before work on Wednesday, Harry has to psych himself up in order to face Louis for the first time since their talk in the parking lot. It’s made him all anxious and nauseous, if he’s honest – and the fact that he’s kept it all to himself can’t be helping. He thinks maybe Kendall will understand, considering her situation with Cara, but he decides against reaching out to her. Cara sounded very much like someone who reciprocates those feelings at the party, he can’t imagine things between them haven’t been cemented in the days since. In fact, he’s sure Cara drunk dialled Kendall as soon as Harry left her on her own that night. Good thing, too. Someone should get their happy ending.

He’s on the treadmill in the gym for a solid half hour, working up a thick layer of sweat. Sometimes running like this helps, sometimes it doesn’t. With the Beach Boys _Pet Sounds_ album echoing in his earbuds, he huffs and puffs through the workout. He manages to get through _Wouldn’t It Be Nice_ without cracking – using it for fuel to burn calories faster. Since being home his usual exercise routine has been in a kind of flux – choosing to bike ride and jog around the neighbourhood rather than risk being spotted and gawked at half naked in the local gym. But it’s early mid-week, and he figures he can take it today.

Yet somehow _God Only Knows_ catches him off guard, the low-key melody blasting loud to drown out the ambient noises from the gym.

> _If you should ever leave me,_
> 
> _Though life would still go on believe me,_
> 
> _The world could show nothing to me,_
> 
> _So what good would living do me?_

At first he just purses his lips, jogs just that bit harder, clenches his fists just that bit tighter. _Focus Harry, focus._

> _God only knows what I’d be without you_

He grunts, half in frustration and half out of exertion – he hasn’t realised that all this distress over the song has got him weak at the knees from running too fast. He quickly skips the song and in the same sweep of anger, turns the treadmill off completely. When it slows, he slows with it, stopping with a pant. That’s enough exercise for today.

Whatever he expects coming into the studio today, it’s not what he gets. He figures he and Louis might be awkward for a few days, might tip toe around one another before eventually easing back into a normalcy. Well, as normal as it can be given the circumstances, that is. So arriving into the room, Harry’s holding his breath, preparing for that first visualisation of Louis so that he can get on with navigating the friendship in the aftermath. If Louis wants to ignore him, that’s fine too.

Only, there isn’t a Louis _here_ to ignore him.

Harry frowns, thinking maybe he’s got the wrong room. Niall looks up from talking to Jamie, waving Harry over, seemingly unaware of the elephant in the room – or rather, the Liam and Louis _not_ in the room.

“Hey Niall…” Harry responds to Niall’s welcoming demeanour, though he’s so distracted that he trails off, as if unsure. Niall doesn’t pick up on it though. “Where’s…” he begins, dragging his eyes away from the room at large to meet Niall’s, “… everyone.”

“Err… Liam ‘n Louis are off writin’ together. Over at Liam’s place, I think. Julian’s…” Niall shrugs, gesturing vaguely, “Around.” Jamie sniggers at that, and Niall grins.

“How long for?” Harry asks, not even bothering to disguise the intensity of his stare.

“Dunno. Few days I think. Ya know how they get.” Niall’s remark isn’t bitter, just a casual observation.

Liam and Louis work best together – they’ve been pairing off and writing on albums for years. It’s nothing new. The timing however, is interesting. Harry doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Louis made it pretty clear he didn’t want to see him. He just thought maybe such lengths weren’t necessary. He forces himself not to take it so personally. Maybe it’s harmless.

After that, work goes off without a hitch. Harry keeps to himself – adding and editing parts of the song he’s had in the works for a few weeks now. They’ve made such leeway with the writing so far before tour kicks off again that they’re afforded some time for workshops like this. Workshops where they’re able to play around a little more freely.

His journal is a mess of scribbled lines and crossed out words. But just like Monday and Tuesday, Harry stays focused on the single song. He’s got a melody already – but it’s pretty simple. It’s made mostly for piano; he wants the vocals to really be the focal point of the piece. It’ll be stripped bare, raw and honest. Just like Harry is, really, in writing it.

> _I can feel your heart inside of mine_
> 
> _I’ve been going out of my mind_
> 
> _Know that I’m just wasting time_
> 
> _And I…_

Harry pauses, looking intently down at his messy handwriting. All he can think of is Louis’ face in the car park the night before, of the way he seemed to plead with him to pretend everything hadn’t been shattered in a single action. All he can think of is Louis’ face when he as good as told Harry he didn’t love him like that. Harry’s own feeble words return to him then, and he writes it before the melancholy trance breaks.

> _Hope that you don’t run from me_

 

**Flashback: December 2011**

It’s show time in three hours and the boys are wasting away the time in the most unproductive, childish ways possible. When Louis gets an idea for a prank, that mischievous look in his eyes and the grin that lights up the sun – it’s hard for Harry to deny him. So he indulges him; the pair of them corrupting whoever they can (namely Niall and Zayn eventually, never Liam as he’s far too preoccupied with vocal training) into playing along. It’s all fun and games – chasing each other through the endless corridors backstage of the arena, frightening members of the crew (especially Lou Teasdale, she’s the most gullible) and overall, distracting one another from the pre-show jitters squirming in their bellies.

Tour started a few days ago, but the reality of it hasn’t really kicked in for Harry. Their first world tour. It’s all so surreal – like a dream that his mum will wake him up from, tell him he’s late for school again. Like he’s still got a normal life to go back to; just waiting for him when all this blows over. But it’s been more than a year since the band were put together and it doesn’t look any where near ending any time soon.

Somewhere along the line, Harry and Louis find themselves in their dressing room and it’s completely empty. They’ve lived together for months – in a mansion no less – but the luxury of separate dressing rooms ( _with a bloody mini fridge too, Harry! Look! This is the life!_ ) is still exciting to them. They’re teenage boys after all. It doesn’t take much to impress them.

“What do you want for your birthday?” Louis asks after a comfortable silence has elapsed. They’re lounging on the couch, daytime TV on in the background, but they’re not really paying attention.

“You don’t have to get me anything,” Harry says, resting his head back against the top of the couch. “Just your company will do.”

Louis rolls his eyes, forcing away the blushing grin that threatens to embarrass him.

“Don’t be a martyr, Haz.” He says coyly. But he’s looking down, fidgeting a little before he speaks again. “I wanna get you something special. It’s not every day you turn eighteen.” The way he speaks is so soft, Harry can’t even help the smile sneaking at his lips.

“It’s just another number, Lou.”

Louis looks up at that, straightening slightly as if the remark is personally offensive. “You’re gonna be a man, though aren’t you? You can do crazy things like…” he flicks his hair, looking off and smirking, “Like buy spray paint and graffiti walls and–”

Harry laughs across Louis, who’s eyes are on him instantly. “I can buy spray paint but being an adult doesn’t mean I can vandalize walls.”

“Well, what are the benefits of being legal, then?” Louis counters. “You can drink, I suppose – but you’ve already been doin’ that.” At the last part he jabs Harry with his elbow, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

Harry smiles, a little distractedly (how could he not be distracted when Louis looks at him like that). Quickly the smile fades and he bites his lower lip in contemplation.

“I can get a tattoo.” He says quietly.

“Yeah,” Louis scoffs, as if the very suggestion is laughably absurd.

“What’s so funny?” Harry frowns.

“What – you’re not serious, are you?”

“I might be,” Harry says firmly, a little bit of indignation in his voice, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout it a bit, actually.”

“Oh, _come on,_ Harry!” Louis almost laughs in disbelief. “What would you even get?”

He knows Louis isn’t accusing him of anything, but his cheeks feel hot at the question. He averts Louis’ eyes, fiddling with the corner of the pillow next to him.

“A quote or somethin’. A lyric. I don’t know.”

Except Harry does know, but he’s not letting on just how seriously he’s been thinking about this. He’s always been fascinated with tattoos, but over the past couple of months the idea of actually getting one himself is becoming more appealing. He knows Louis has always been vocally against them – at least on himself – but Harry’s hoping he’ll support what he ends up getting. _Maybe if he knew it was about him._

“What quote or lyric could possibly be good enough to write on your skin. _Permanently,_ at that!”

“I don’t know, Louis – why are you attackin’ me?” He frowns, half serious, half in jest. He knows Louis is mostly just kicking up a fuss to be funny, but there’s an edge to it, too. Harry’s just vulnerable enough on the topic that he doesn’t want to be pushed. Because the truth is he’s known ever since Louis first kissed him what he wanted etched into his skin forever. He wants to commemorate the night in the most eternal way he can imagine. Plus, tattoos are just cool aren’t they?

“M’just saying…” Louis shrugs, his voice sporting far less of the accusation from seconds prior, “That’s _forever,_ that is, Harry!”

“So?” Harry grins. “S’kinda the point.”

“Bloody hell.” Louis curses, exaggerating his exasperation at Harry’s careless attitude. He seems to analyse Harry a moment, their eyes locked before a light bulb goes off in his mind – or at least, that’s what Harry would describe it as, by the slight raise of his eyebrows and the sudden movement off the couch. “Look. I’ll show ya.” He’s already heading to the cupboard in the corner, searching through the draws for something.

When he comes back, Harry isn’t prepared for the way Louis surges toward him, a black permanent marker in hand and an overall air of determination about him.

“What are you doin’?” he asks; watching Louis rest against his elbows – one hand holding Harry’s bicep, the other hovers over it with the pen.

Louis doesn’t respond, just bites his lower lip in concentration and starts drawing on Harry’s skin. The contact makes Harry jerk slightly. “Hey!” he protests, finally catching on. “That tickles!”

“Wanna make sure you know what you’re committing to.” Louis explains, not taking his eye off his drawing. He’s silent after that, gripping Harry’s arm tighter every time Harry squirms under the marker. It doesn’t take long for Louis’ creation to be complete – and when it’s done, he sits back, satisfied.

“A heart on my sleeve?” Harry asks, craning his neck to look at it. It’s just a huge black heart right below the sleeve of his t-shirt. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Lou.” He says deadpan, looking up at Louis with faux confusion. Of course he understands the dig Louis is trying to make. It’s no secret that Harry can be a little sensitive, heartfelt baby at times.  

“Just pointing out the obvious, Harold.”

“I actually like it.”

Louis heaves a sigh, physically slackening his shoulders with the exhaustion of it. “I’m trying to make a point ‘ere and you’re making it difficult for me.”

“Says the one assaulting me with a Sharpie.”

Louis doesn’t expect the witty response, and he cocks an eyebrow challengingly.

“God, you’re a terror.” But Louis breaks into a giddy grin and it tells Harry that he’s loving this just as much as he is.

There’s a hesitation then, like maybe the joking around is over. Their eyes lock and Harry thinks for a second Louis might kiss him – right here where anyone could walk in and catch them, and then they’d _really_ be in trouble – but instead of meeting his lips in the rush forward, Louis grabs Harry’s shirt with a jerk.

“What the fuck–” Harry curses, instinctively covering his chest in self defence.

“ _Language,_ Harry!” Louis barks in mock authority. He’s pulling at Harry’s shirt, tugging it up and exposing Harry’s stomach.

“What the hell are ya doin’!” Harry squeaks, laughing in disbelief.

“You _still_ aren’t understanding the seriousness of getting a tattoo.” Louis says sternly, with every squirm from Harry under him, he huffs a breath. Harry just giggles uncontrollably, his eyes squinting and dimples prominent – all the while clutching at Louis’ hands in a very meagre attempt at pulling him off. “Stop wigglin’ around, will you!” he says after a few attempts at drawing on Harry’s bare chest. All he gets is a slightly less jittery Harry, giving in but not trying to stop his full-bodied burst of laughter.

“There.” Louis announces after a few excruciating minutes. Excruciating for Harry, that is, considering how ticklish he is. Not to mention (though he won’t admit it) the fact that there’s something utterly distracting about Louis hovering so far down on his body, looking up at Harry through his lashes, smirking. It makes his cheeks feel hot and he shoves the thought aside immediately. _There’s a time and a place, Styles._

Harry looks down at his abdomen – usually bare – that is now scribbled with a huge cross. It’s messy, clearly Harry’s movement forced Louis to make a few adjustments to his masterpiece. Beneath it, it says ‘Lou!’ and when Harry glances up at Louis, he’s beaming proudly back.

“You wouldn’t get a tattoo of my name on you forever.” Louis says flippantly, looking down at his name branded on Harry’s skin. To Harry, however, the idea isn’t as farfetched as he’s making it sound. He should laugh or nod in agreement, maybe even remark how stupid Louis’ antics are like he would if he was playing around. Instead, he just watches Louis’ expression with a kind of wonder.

Because Harry really hopes Louis will be just as constant, just as significant in Harry’s life in the years to come as he is now. He can’t imagine that to be an untrue prediction – with how quickly and adamantly Louis has wriggled his way into Harry’s heart. It doesn’t matter that it’s all a joke to Louis – that tattoos are at this point, just a very exciting daydream for the not too distant future. All he knows is that the _future_ – it’s Louis. All of it. So Harry doesn’t mind Louis making a joke of him getting Louis’ name tattooed. Because with a smug kind of inner pride, Harry thinks maybe one day he’ll do exactly that.

# …

Harry stares at his ‘Won’t stop ‘till we surrender’ tattoo while he waits for the phone to connect. It dials endlessly, but he’s not thinking about it much. Instead he lets himself wallow in the bittersweet irony of how faded the misquoted Temper Trap lyrics are. How symbolic it is to the origins of it. How very fitting it is for how things between Harry and Louis are now. Fading. Almost gone. It seemed so easy back then; hauled up in their bedroom, still high from the adrenaline of Leeds and so enraptured by one another – so easy to make such a careless promise. _Won’t stop ‘till we surrender._ But as the years go by, Harry is realising maybe surrendering is the only option. Maybe giving up isn’t so bad. If he’d been a bit younger, a bit braver, maybe he would have more of that fight in him. But he doesn’t, because he’s older and wearier and nothing makes sense to him anymore.

The phone line finally connects.

“Sweetheart,” Anne’s soothing voice answers, “You should have told me you were goin’ to call, I’ve got to pop out to the shops in a minute.”

“That’s okay, Mum. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Aw, dear,” Anne sighs softly, and Harry closes his eyes – pretends for a second he’s back home and his mum can sigh all his worries away, “Well, hi.” She chuckles merrily and it almost brings a smile to Harry’s face, but it’s weary and tight like he hasn’t formed it in weeks. “What’s on your mind, love?”

“Something happened with Louis.” It falls from his mouth before he can stop it. He wasn’t going to do this – talk about Louis – not to his mother. Not to _anyone_ , really. The moment he hears her comforting voice, though, he can’t help but open up to her. “And I don’t know what to do.”

There’s another sigh – only this one is heavier and oozes the kind of compassion only felt by mothers. Harry waits, imaging his mum sitting by the phone, maybe biting a nail out of nervous empathy.

“Okay, hon. Let’s start from the beginnin’, shall we? And we can see what we can do from there, hmm? What happened, love?”

Harry should really have known he was lying to himself when he said he wouldn’t tell his mum about Louis. The moment he decided to call her, he should have dropped the pretence. Because now – instead of being able to succinctly and efficiently explain the history between himself and Louis, he rushes; his words jumbled and thoughts just as scattered as any other time he’s tried to wrap his head around _them._ There’s just so much to say – _too_ much – and he doesn’t even know where to start. But he tries, and Anne is patient.

“I just feel like…” Harry’s slowed down a bit now, the original adrenaline of coming clean fading with each passing minute. He’s said all he can manage, emotionally. All that he’s willing. It’s enough that Anne can put together the missing pieces for herself. He starts by saying how close they’d been years ago, how it had always been a little more than what everyone thought. Anne isn’t surprised – how could she be? She knows Harry better than anyone, and he was never very subtle when it came to his affections for Louis. She just listens, makes sympathetic sounds when Harry pauses, and the occasional soothing word.

Harry breathes in deeply. “It just feels as if… maybe this was my chance to do it… _right_ … this time.” His voice wavers at the end and he gulps back the lump in his throat. Every word is spoken in a slow, calculating manner, but it doesn’t stop the shakiness from coming through. “… And I’ve ruined it.”

“Sweetheart,” Anne begins, and it’s soft and a little sad, “Thank you for telling me all of this.” It’s simple, but it pulls at Harry’s heart strings. It really is a weight off his shoulders – like a burden he didn’t even know he was carrying. He’s never spoken so candidly about all of this, never taken one stroke to paint the picture of what had been. While it was happening, Harry got so caught up in falling love that he didn’t think – and when it was over, all he wanted to do was forget and move on. Bury every moment, every touch, every single memory that used to bring a glowing warmth to his chest, now makes his heart physically sting. Until recently, that is.

“When was the last you spoke?” Anne asks seriously.

“A few days ago,” Harry says in a mopey tone, “It was really bad, Mum. I think he’s angry with me. I think–” he cuts off, steadies his breathing, “I think he might hate me.”

“ _Oh, love_ , now I know that can’t be true,” Anne promises, “Louis loves you.”

“But Mum–” Harry whines, and it’s as if he’s fifteen again begging for something trivial like more time on his playstation before bed, or his favourite chocolate bar from the store.

“Maybe not in _that way_.” Anne concedes before Harry can even finish his sentence. She can read him like a book – even like this, through the phone. “But he loves you. You have something special, he’d be a fool to give it all up just over a little misunderstanding.”

“It’s not a _misunderstandin’,_ Mum. I– I kissed him and he didn’t want to be kissed.” His bottom lip quivers and he must be doing a damn good impression of a baby on the verge of a tearful wail.

Anne is silent for a few lingering seconds and all Harry can hear is the static.

“I can’t speak for Louis. I don’t know how he’s feeling,” She’s talking almost as slow as Harry, very careful and compassionate, “But I just cannot believe it’s hopeless, love. I just don’t see it that way.”

“You’re just being optimistic.”

“That’s what mothers are for,” She says, matching her son’s tired humour, “But really, Harry.” Her tone changes, like a gentle assertiveness. “Please don’t give up. Things aren’t always how you perceive them to be. Sometimes…” she trails off, perhaps thinking of the best way to word what she’s about to say. She huffs a laugh. “Sometimes you can get a little stuck in your own head, sweetheart. I know it’s hard not to – when he’s not speakin’ to you about everythin’… but just take the time to… I don’t know, just… wait it out I think. From what you’ve told me and from what I’ve _seen_ myself… well. Just don’t assume it’s doomed, hmm?”  

Harry doesn’t know what to say after that – partly because Anne always gives the best advice and everything she says is infuriatingly accurate – but mostly because he’s afraid to accept it. To accept that sliver of hope his mother has handed him. If he takes it, it could be all the more devastating when it’s crushed once and for all.

“Harry? You still with us, love?”

“Yeah, sorry. Was thinkin’.”

He says it with enough lightness that Anne is able to let out a breathy laugh. “You’re always doin’ that, aren’t you?” she teases fondly.

Harry can’t help but grin, and the moment is drenched in nostalgia. He’s thrown right back to that bench by the River Dane and Louis is kicking his wellies against Harry’s and saying – _whatcha need to think for?_ Everything reminds him of Louis and he’s long since given up trying to escape it.

“Thanks for the talk, Mum. Sorry for… holdin’ up your shoppin’ trip.”

“Oh, don’t be daft,” Anne huffs, “Any excuse to talk to you, love.” She pauses. “I hope you think about it, for me, will you? What I said?”

“Yeah.” He says, almost embarrassed. It’s endearing, if anything else, when his mum gets politely pushy like this. He wishes she was right. “I will.”

 

**Flashback: July 2013**

It’s times like these when Harry wonders how someone can have such an overwhelming influence on another person that even a place is ruined by it. Pittsburgh won’t ever be the same to him after this tour. Maybe he’ll come back to it, years from now, a city he doesn’t even know but that brings him such heartache. He knows, even with time, this place will always hold those moments with Louis.

It started when Louis began sleeping on the tour bus with Zayn back in February. At the time Harry tried not to take it personally, but the harsh contrast to the tour before was hardly something he could ignore. He can’t figure out how so much can change in a year. Last time they were touring things were so different. Harry and Louis would share hotel rooms most of the time, or when they didn’t, Louis would sneak into Harry’s bed just like if they were back home. They basically lived out of one another’s pockets. Now, Harry is lucky if he gets five minutes alone with Louis. It feels like he’s going out of his mind with how much he misses Louis. Even when they’re together; in the green room before shows, backstage revving each other up before running out to thousands of screaming fans – it still feels like something is blocking their path. Like a brick wall has been built between them now, and Harry hasn’t got a clue how to tear it down.

The worst part was when Eleanor joined the second leg of the Take Me Home tour. She clung to Louis like a fucking leech and sucked the room of any joy the moment she entered. Harry couldn’t stand looking at her, it made him feel sick to his stomach. So much so that even now, after weeks of her being on tour enough for him to surely be used to it, he’s still nauseated at the sight of her. He’s grown accustomed to making up some kind of excuse every time she’s around, just to get the hell out of there. He hates himself for it, really – how terribly rude he is around her. She seems for the most part, oblivious, which is probably the worst thing about it. She’s friendly and beautiful, flicking her hair and poising her freshly painted nails across Louis’ shoulders or entwining their hands. She’s _nice_ is the thing. So freaking nice. And Harry hates her guts.

He always promised himself not to get jealous. He isn’t the jealous type, and anyway – Louis isn’t his to be jealous over. If they were just friends before; cuddling and kissing and all of it – then they _definitely_ are just friends now: days between talking, awkward tension, and non-existent touches. _Just friends._ Sometimes it feels like they aren’t even that anymore.

How foolishly naïve he’d been to think the staged break up with Taylor and subsequent end to the publicity stunt would improve things. It seems like everything is just adding insult to injury – like no matter how hard he tries; they’re doomed to fail.

So it’s after the show in Pittsburgh that it all comes to a head. Harry has to leave the stage during _Rock Me_ , he’s that overcome. He can hear Niall covering his solo while he breathes back the tears backstage. It’s not like anything _specific_ triggered it. Everything’s just taking its toll on him. It’s all been shit, really. Every minute of it.

He’s calmer when he knocks fast and adamant on Louis’ dressing room door after the show. His knocks must be loud; so much so, that when the door swings inward, the look of surprise to see it’s _Harry_ that’s making the incessant racket is clear on Louis’ face.

“Harry.” He says stiffly, gulping deeply. Harry’s expression must be telling Louis this isn’t a friendly call.

“Can I come in?” he asks, but he’s already stepping over the threshold. Louis just mumbles a yes, dodging Harry by millimetres as he shifts past him into the room.

“Wha–” Louis begins the second the door is shut behind them. He’s watching Harry with deep frown lines, all the while Harry’s eyes scan the room. They’re alone. Perfect.

“Louis,” Harry cuts across him before the word is even formed. He has to spill everything before it’s too late. He has to let it out in the open or else he’ll do something stupid. Unless this _is_ the something stupid. _Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?_ “What the hell are we doing?” he demands, his hands shaking and heart thudding uncontrollably. Even though he’s terrified and angry and _upset_ – all of these conflicting emotions – the words come out cool and crisp.

Louis is silent, but the question registers in his features like a punch. Harry stares back at him, the intensity of their eye contact making Harry itch to break it. He doesn’t, though. He isn’t backing down. No fucking way.

“What’s _going on?_ ” he asks, glowering in a way that he hopes will intimidate an honest answer out of Louis. They’re just standing there, in the middle of the dressing room with some unimportant football match playing on the telly. Harry is a metre from Louis, but it feels much further. Still closer than they’ve been in a long time though, he notes.

“I don’t…” Louis begins, his voice coming out in a strained whisper. It’s like maybe if he’s quiet, Harry’ll follow suit. _Not gonna happen._

“Don’t _pretend_ you don’t know what I’m talking about, Louis.” And there’s more of an edge in his voice now, like a little bit of that poker face is falling away. Not quite, though. He’s still guarded, standing tall and determined. “What are we _doing_? What do you want from me?”

“What do I _want_ from you?” Louis repeats, absolutely indignant and baffled. The look on his face, his eyebrows raised and mouth caught in what looks like a sneer – it’s oddly unreadable. Harry can’t figure it out and the more it feels like smoke and mirrors, the more riled up he gets.

“ _Yeah!_ ” Harry affirms, not backing down. He folds his arms tight at his chest. “I had to leave in the middle of a performance tonight, Lou! I’ve never done anything like that before! It’s not fair to the rest of the boys. I’m literally going out of my fucking mind about this.”

Louis’ face melts into concern, like all he wants to is pull Harry into a hug, maybe even kiss the anger away. Yet Harry isn’t having any of it – he can’t allow the sympathetic words or the soothing touches. Not when it’s so clear Louis didn’t even know he was the reason Harry left in the middle of the concert. He _needs_ to let it all out. He’s been holding it in so long and he feels like he’s about to burst.

So when Louis’ mouth is poised to speak, Harry quickly overturns him. “And you just stand there,” He shrugs coldly, his expression heartless, “Completely unaffected.” It’s a lie that he’s able to live with. It’s a lie – because Louis’ face is so consumed by worry for Harry it couldn’t be any more obvious. Harry is angry though, and he’s done letting Louis do this. He’s done pretending like everything’s alright when it’s not. So he lies, because he wants to punish the one he loves the most. And no, he’s not proud of it. He never will be. 

Louis almost chokes on his words, like the rush to get them out is too overwhelming. So he just gapes, his eyes filled with something Harry can’t quite figure out. _Jesus, when did Louis get so hard to read?_ Everything used to be so much fucking _easier_ than this.

When Louis doesn’t say anything; just stares blankly, shifts his weight from one foot to another, fidgets even – everything but _actually saying anything_ – Harry huffs angrily. This isn’t the response he thought he’d get. Or at least, it’s not the one he’d prayed for. Stupidly, somewhere in the back of his mind, that optimism had kept his hope alive. Like a little match alight, just waiting til’ they can get it right. Somehow the longer they stand there in complete silence, the more that dream is just that – a _dream_.

“Have you really got nothin’ to say?” Harry quips, openly angry now. Louis must pick up on it, because there’s subtle but unmistakable fear that flickers across his face before it’s hardened into a glare. _How can he stand here in front of me, how can he watch me bare my soul like this, and say nothing?_ Just end it now – right here – quick and painless. _Just tell me you don’t want me. I can take it._

Harry takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair in frustration, tugging at the short curls as if his life depends on it. “When we’re together, I think… I think everythin’ is _fine_ and that we’re–” _in love._ He swallows back the word. He’s never hated love so much in his life.

Taking a few seconds to compose himself, Harry’s eyes fall shut and he breathes in and out slowly. He opens them again and although barely any time has passed, the expression on Louis’ face has changed exponentially. It’s all angry and pained and something else, too. Harry doesn’t care, though. He’s done walking on glass, _done_ tip-toeing around this.

“But then you go off with _her_ .” Harry’s words cut like knives. He knows, because Louis physically winces when he says it. _Precious Eleanor._ She’s always been a kind of taboo subject. He should have known that would be a sore spot. And yeah, maybe he did know. Maybe that’s why he’s bringing it up. It’s petty and it’s disgustingly low, he knows that. But that’s just it – he’s never been lower in his life.

Louis looks at Harry in a way he’s never done before. It brings Harry down a peg or two – just that look. Like he’s being shown Harry in a whole new light and he doesn’t like what he sees. The rage is evident then, in the way Louis’ lips are pursed, in the deep creases in his forehead and the way his whole demeanour goes rigid. _Silly me_ , Harry thinks sarcastically, _silly me for bringing his girlfriend into this. His girlfriend who he loves._

“Who the fuck thought any of this was a good idea?” Harry snaps, like if he keeps yelling it’ll make the pain go away. Like maybe Louis will finally react in a way that isn’t balled fists and gritted teeth. And he doesn’t mean it, not really, because he’s so fucking mad that Louis won’t say anything.

Each blow is worse than the one before, ranting and raving, each insult a slap in Louis’ face. The hot tears are at Harry’s eyes now and he blinks them back furiously. He’s always been an angry crier, but of all the times, this is the _worst_ for it to happen.

Just as Harry feels he might be sick to death of hearing his own voice, Louis’ words shoot across his.

“How can you be that _fucking_ blind?!” Louis shouts, his eyes staring Harry down wildly. He looks like he’s been holding onto that sentence, psyching himself up to say it for a long time. It forces Harry’s mouth shut, taken aback by the outburst. “I don’t bloody want _HER!_ ” And any pretence of keeping this between them, any notion that they mightn’t be overheard – is thrown out the window. Harry is sure he’s never seen Louis yell like this. The pitch, the volume; only reserved for a side of him that’s reeling its ugly head.

Harry feels like the air has been knocked right out of him. His throat constricts, dry but at the same time, like he’s drowning. His skin is hot with rage and confusion, his mind swimming in the daunting anxiety. _I don’t want her._ Barely a second has passed, and Harry wants to ask – _then who do you want?_ Louis looks at him with the most anguished, conflicted expression; on the verge of wanting to elaborate, but teetering on the edge – afraid somehow. Or maybe he’s so angry that he can’t even explain what he wants to say with words alone.

Before Harry can even form a coherent thought on the subject, Louis surges forward – grabbing him by his shirt and tugging him into a passionate kiss. Harry takes a second to respond, the shock of the gesture forcing him to stumble forward a few steps. That doesn’t deter Louis, whose grip refuses to loosen, whose lips are so firm against Harry’s it’s like he’s telling him everything he can with touch. _Jesus Christ,_ does Harry quickly make up for the lost seconds, pressing against Louis with his whole body, lips wet and frantic upon one another. Louis’ hand fists the short hair at the back of Harry’s neck, causing an involuntarily low groan to escape Harry.

They cling to each other with an ardent desperation; but even with their tongues locked together, the longing that’s been growing within Harry in the months since they last did this isn’t satisfied. To be honest, they’ve never really done _this_ before – this angry, feverish kind of kiss. But they haven’t kissed at all in months and it’s so obvious how hungry they are for it.

They stay like that for several seconds, clutching intensely and kissing as if it’s their last. _Maybe it is_ , Harry thinks. Because when his heart finally catches up with his head, he pulls away from Louis with a jerk. The instant they’re apart, Harry can see how distraught Louis is; his face flushed hot pink as he rubs at his eyes furiously. Had he been crying into the kiss? _Oh God._

“No.” Harry says firmly, feeling the heat of his cheeks, every part of him burning where Louis touched. “ _No_.” he repeats, almost trying to convince himself more than Louis. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to kiss Louis everywhere, wants to feel as close to him as he can, he just can’t get enough. But he has to say no. It can’t continue like this and he’s doing this for Louis just as much as he is for himself.

“You can’t fix everythin’ just by kissing me.” He announces assertively, his heart threatening to burst from his chest with how quickly it beats. Then he’s angry again, with how messy this all is. Because before the kiss, Louis said something he can’t stop repeating in his mind. _I don’t want her._ Alas, the moment’s gone and he’s so scared to try and salvage it.

Louis opens his mouth, searching for a response. He can’t seem to decide on one and just resorts to nodding numbly.

The dressing room door opens with a creak and both boys’ heads whip around. The moment Harry registers who it is, he feels his heart sink to the bottom of his chest. He can see Louis physically slacken beside him, like all the fight has been taken out of him.

“Is everyone alright?” Eleanor asks timidly, her hand still clutching the doorknob, almost afraid to enter the room. Her brown eyes flick from Harry to Louis, must see the tension written all over their faces. It’s so obvious she’s interrupted something so completely charged. “I heard… yelling…” she trails off, looking a little like she regrets even asking.

Louis subtly steps away from Harry, a gesture that isn’t lost to anyone in the room. Harry eyes him and they look at one another searching, imploring. _If he wanted me, he would fight for me_. If he loved Harry, he’d tell Eleanor everything _isn’t_ alright – that it hasn’t been for a long time. That she should leave if she knows what’s good for her. But Louis doesn’t. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for Harry to give up for good. Right there in the middle of the dressing room, Eleanor’s wide eyes on him and Louis staring at the floor.

He should say something. He should tell Louis right now, in front of her, just how in love he is with him. But he can’t bring himself to. It’s the biggest mistake of his life. All he does is watch Louis, inwardly praying for some unattainable miracle. When the silence lingers, Harry shakes his head in disappointment and without saying anything else, he heads to the door.

“He’s all yours.” He murmurs darkly, only lingering in front of Eleanor for a second before he’s passing her and into the hall.  

After Harry leaves the dressing room, he wanders the halls aimlessly, letting the constant stream of tears run uninterrupted down his cheeks. His face is blotchy and wet, but he doesn’t care.

It’s not like the fight itself ends it, but it finalises what’s been building for the past several months. Harry should’ve seen it coming, really. Even if he had, he’s sure the pain of it wouldn’t be lessoned.

He can’t look at Louis for a while after that night in Pittsburgh. The tour continues and Harry performs his heart and soul to thousands every night. He and Louis don’t talk and eventually the instinct fades. Eventually, Harry doesn’t get a pang in his chest looking at Louis. Eventually, he learns to move on.

Management’s intervention last June doesn’t need to be pushed anymore. Simon hasn’t called Harry in for a meeting or a ‘talk’ between him and Louis for months. No one has been told off for touching or making too much eye contact during the show. Gone are the days of ‘ _we advise that you refrain from whispering to one another until after the show’_ because there isn’t anything to refrain from in the first place.

The management team might have started it, but Harry and Louis took the reigns and destroyed what they had all on their own.

# …

Pen posed between his teeth while he pulls his hair up into a bun, Harry frowns intently down at his written lyrics. He’s been in the studio since 5am, on account of the fact that getting to sleep hasn’t been so easy lately. After his phone call with his mum, he more or less decided to really crack down on his songwriting and since it’s the early hours on a Sunday, the studio is completely empty. Perfect to help him stay in the zone. He’s meant to be seeing Julian in about an hour anyway, to discuss some fine tuning for some of the songs, so arriving early is hardly counterproductive.

In the days since he last saw Louis, Harry’s untitled song has been making a lot of progress. He fine tunes the bridge, but the song is pretty straight forward and a little repetitive (in the right amount, Harry hopes). For the most part, it’s finished. Well, as finished as it can be without an opening verse or song title. He figures inspiration will strike when it wants and from past experience, there’s no use pushing it.    

Nodding satisfactorily to himself, Harry decides he’s happy with the chorus. It reads:

> _For your eyes only, I show you my heart_
> 
> _For when you’re lonely and forget who you are_
> 
> _I’m missing half of me when we’re apart_
> 
> _Now you know me, for your eyes only_
> 
> _For your eyes only_

There’s no other way he could have worded it better. How he feels when he’s with Louis. Things are so messy and he’s so lost – unsure of where things will go in the days to come. But this much is true. If he’s going to be vulnerable, if he’s going to expose the inner workings of his mind and of his heart, it’ll be to Louis. For him and him alone. And he thinks maybe he’s already done that, as best as he can, and he prays Louis understands. That everything he is, everything he feels from love to heartbreak – is for his eyes only.

Biting his lower lip absentmindedly, Harry figures he should leave the song where it is, unfinished; at least for now. It takes so much out of him to write like this, thinking about Louis. And anyway, Julian will be here soon. He’s been hunched over the desk for hours and the cramp in his hand is hard to ignore, so he pulls himself up and stretches long and lazy.

The thought springs to his mind, then, to go and check on the recordings in the sound studio. He hasn’t heard how _Olivia_ is sounding since they last recorded his solo, and he’s ready to confront Julian over those trumpets if they aren’t there.

Placing the headset over his ears, Harry turns in his chair ever so slightly, the wheels sliding against the hard linoleum. It’s not often that he’s left to his own devices with this equipment and it's kind of exciting. Considering how expensive all of it is, he usually leaves it up to the sound guys to press all the buttons and work the controls. Technology has never been his strong suit, anyway.

Humming thoughtfully to himself, his hands hover over the power board. He swears he remembers Jamie showing him which one was the playback, but he’s forgotten. Damn it. He opts for hesitantly pressing a few random buttons, one glows red at the contact and his mouth twitches in fear. It’s alright though, because nothing happens, so he can breathe easy. If Louis were here, he’d be teasing Harry relentlessly. He can practically hear it now – _Haz, we’ve been musicians for five years and you still don’t know how to work the basic on/off button in the recording booth. Are you sure you’re a millennial?_ He almost smiles at the thought.

Finally, he’s getting somewhere, Harry thinks, when clicking a button doesn’t immediately result in something catastrophic. He can hear noise in his headphones and knows immediately it’s a demo. He’s quick to realise his failure though, because it’s definitely not the _Olivia_ recording. Frowning, Harry goes to click another button, hopefully it’ll skip whatever this is so he can keep an ear out for those highly anticipated trumpets. He freezes mid-reach at the sound of Louis’ soft, muffled voice through the headphones.

“You gonna count us in?” his pre-recorded voice asks into the silence. Harry’s heart constricts in his chest at the sound and it feels like forever since he’s heard it in person. He never thought he’d feel so much love for someone that even their voice is enough to bring butterflies to his stomach. “From the top yeah?”

“Yep,” It’s Liam. It’s from one of their writing sessions. “Three, two, one.”

Harry’s hand is still raised over the keyboard when the basic instrumental starts – guitar introducing the ballad. Liam starts singing first and in Harry’s confusion, it’s not until Louis’ solo that he realises what he’s hearing. He’s staring at nothing, eyes glazed and mouth slightly ajar. He hasn’t got a thing to say or do in reaction; almost thinks that if he moves, it’ll break the spell. So he stays frozen, hearing Louis’ husky, slightly high tone sing into the mic. All there is, is his own heartbeat drumming.

Overwhelmed is all Harry can really feel in the moment. It’s not just the incredible crisp yet husky vocals from Louis, but the lyrics. _The lyrics._ Harry doesn’t even register when his eyelids flutter shut, absorbed wholly in the music.

> _It’s alright, calling out for somebody to hold to tonight_
> 
> _When you’re lost I’ll find a way and I’ll be your light_
> 
> _You’ll never feel like you’re alone_
> 
> _I’ll make this feel like home_

It unnerves him how deeply he connects to the song, how the lyrics manage to complete parts of the writing he’s been doing for weeks now. The writing for Louis. _Oh God._

> _I see the smile as it starts to creep in,_
> 
> _It was there, I saw it in your eyes_

He knows Louis can’t have been the only one working on the song. Liam at least, has had a say. But it radiates Louis in every possible way; in the melody and in the choice of words. It’s like he’s singing directly to Harry. For the first time since talking to his mum, he entertains the thought – that maybe everything isn’t as he thought it was. If this song describes exactly how Harry feels about Louis, then why is it _Louis_ who wrote it?   

> _I’ll make this feel like home_

And he’s drenched in the echoing silence of the studio once more. It takes him a moment, just staring blankly as his mind races. Eventually, he looks over at the screen, where the details of the demo piece are lit up. The song – it’s called _Home_ , Harry notes – was recorded two days ago. _Two goddamn days ago._

Harry isn’t sure how long he sits there, rigid and staring down at the date of the recording. It must be a minute at least, because his mind begins wandering and he has to snap out of it; clearing his throat and shaking his head. Rolling his chair across the room, he grabs his notepad and pen. _Home_ sparked something and he has to write it down before he forgets it.

> _If I could fly,_
> 
> _I’d be coming right back home to you_
> 
> _I think I might give up everything,_
> 
> _Just ask me to_

There it is. The opening lines he’s been searching for, for weeks. Suddenly the song is whole, the piece that was missing all along found in Louis’ angelic voice. Harry isn’t surprised at all.

The door to the studio creaks and Harry nearly jumps out of his seat. He’d been so consumed by the two songs that he forgot Julian would be arriving any minute now. The bright smile he plasters on his face in greeting is hardly convincing at covering up his surprise at Julian’s arrival.

“Harry, how long have you been here for?” Julian asks, frowning as he walks toward him.

Almost on cue, Harry yawns and laughs tiredly at himself. “Couple of hours.”

“Dude,” Julian looks affronted at the very idea, “It’s only 9am.”

“Is it?” Harry asks lazily before checking the digital clock on the desk, “Already, Jesus.” He mumbles more to himself, leaning heavily against the palm of his hand as he turns his head back to Julian.

“Millionaire Harry Styles homeless again?” Julian smirks, jabbing Harry in the arm with his elbow playfully. “You need a couch to sleep on?”

“Ha-ha.” Harry deadpans. A few seconds pass, Harry’s eyes fall back to his lyrics. “Just writin’ somethin’.” He admits quietly.

“Struck with musical genius, huh?” Julian asks, his positively light tone making Harry feel like his grogginess is particularly out of place. “Can I hear it?”

Harry doesn’t miss a beat, smirking subtly to himself as he thinks of a response. “Have you put the trumpets in _Olivia_?”

Julian laughs. “Touché, touché.” He rolls the spare chair over and sinks into it with a satisfied sigh. “But seriously man, show us.”

“I am completely serious.” Harry says pointedly, blinking slowly. He really wants those damn trumpets. Julian just gives him an exasperated look and Harry can’t help but laugh breathily. “Okay, alright.” He concedes, shuffling the paper nervously. “But I only just finished… it’s very… rough.”

The other man seems unfazed by Harry’s disclaimer, leaning across him to read before saying another word. Harry just waits, biting his bottom lip absentmindedly. His mind keeps returning, inexplicably, to Louis’ song. The lyrics spin around his head like a whirlwind. _Could we ever be enough? Baby, we could be enough._

Julian leans back, evidently having finished reading.

“The melody kind of…” Harry gestures, his hands splayed, pinkie finger stretched just that little bit further, “Drifts, I guess.” His hands fall in his lap. “It’s meant to be accompanied by piano.”

“Cool, cool,” Julian nods encouragingly, “Shouldn’t it be called _For Your Eyes Only_ , though?” he remarks, looking at the page. “I mean, sick song, but that’s the chorus right? It’d make more sense.”

“No,” Harry says, deadpan, “It has to be _If I Could Fly_.”

“But that phrase is only at the start,” Julian insists, “People won’t remember it.”

“If it’s such a ‘sick’ song, it won’t matter what it’s called.” Harry replies coolly, but it’s in jest. He’s always pushing his boundaries with Julian, whose carefree attitude always just makes him laugh along with Harry. “It’ll be memorable on it’s own.”

“That’s true,” Julian concedes with a wise nod, “Well, you’re the boss. We’ll show it to Jamie and John later, see what they say.”

The subject changes completely after that, the pair of them working through lyrics to other songs and overall, completely focusing on everything but _If I Could Fly_. Harry doesn’t mention Louis and Liam’s demo, but the entire session his mind keeps returning to it. He keeps cursing inwardly, forcing himself back into the moment with Julian. It doesn’t work though, and he’s zoned out so much that Julian has to repeat his questions several times.

All he can think about is what the song could mean. It was recorded two days ago, _after_ Louis told him to forget about the kiss. Could there be a chance Harry misunderstood his motives that night in the parking lot? Could there be a chance that Harry never read Louis wrong at the party after all? _Could there be a chance?_

Harry thinks of Pittsburgh. He thinks of how awful things were toward the end, how it felt like falling into a bottomless black hole, like he’d never escape. Salvaging what they had seemed virtually impossible and he’d convinced himself after that night that he’d given up. And yet, somehow, he’s beginning to wonder if that was ever true. How could it be, if he’d leapt at the first chance to have Louis back in his life? How could it, if even now – after everything – he still holds a flame for Louis? He never stopped loving him, so how could he really believe he stopped fighting for a future with him too?

And maybe, _just maybe_ … Louis hasn’t given up either.

Harry hasn’t forgotten what Louis said all those years ago in the dressing room. _I don’t want her._ It stayed in his mind for weeks after, the question for it hanging at his lips whenever Louis eyed him painfully from across the stage, whenever they found themselves alone together – completely unable to speak their minds. Harry never stopped wanting an answer.

_Who do you want?_

He never asked. Too afraid, too cowardly to face the response. But now? Now he thinks he just might have that courage he’s waited years for.

 _I never asked._   

It’s right there in the studio – Julian’s voice registering at his ears but completely unheard – that Harry realises he’s going to ask Louis. _Has_ to ask Louis. No matter the consequences.

“Sorry,” Harry interrupts, tuning back to the present, “Julian, I actually… M’not feelin’ well. I need to go home, I think.”

“Oh,” Julian looks taken aback, but nods despite it, “Yeah, man, whatever you need.”

Harry abruptly stands, hesitates a moment and plays it off by running his hands shakily through his curls before gathering up his things. He doesn’t say much else except a mumbled goodbye, before he’s heading to the door. It’s been so long. _So fucking long_. He’ll be damned if he wastes even another minute before he gets to Louis. So with a new found adrenaline coursing through his veins, Harry jumps in his car and makes the drive to Louis’ house.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a sad one... with an uplifting ending I hope. I can guarantee joyousness in the next chapter. That's also a wrap on the flashbacks I'm afraid - I had so much fun writing baby Larry!
> 
> Also I'd be looking out for a Christmas special sometime soon on my AO3...
> 
> • Harry writing ['If I Could Fly'](http://onedirection.wikia.com/wiki/If_I_Could_Fly) (Julian hearing it and wondering why it isn’t called 'For Your Eyes Only' and Harry insists on 'If I Could Fly'. Also canon that it's written around the same time as 'Home')  
> • The 2011 flashback is based off [this picture](http://i4.mirror.co.uk/incoming/article1816097.ece/ALTERNATES/s615b/I130405123147294227.jpg) I found in [the Mirror](http://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/harry-styles-unseen-pictures-one-1815991) of Harry that I couldn't find an origin for, so I just thought the story I made fit pretty well.  
> • I also [found this](http://kindofsharethat.tumblr.com/post/152741992974/what-the-fuck-what-the-fuck) after writing the flashback and the similarities were startling.  
> • The ‘Wont Stop til we surrender' tattoo [has faded](http://pbs.twimg.com/media/BSaGPf0CYAEQbH5.png:large)  
> • Pittsburgh in 2013, Harry does have to leave the concert (for unknown reasons, I think he was sick?) during 'Rock Me'.  
> • Also, not gonna source it, but I’m pretty sure Eleanor was on tour with them at the time or around then.
> 
> Just a quick message to say I hope you're all holding up alright after the tragic news about Jay. My inbox on [Tumblr](harryrainbows.tumblr.com) is always open if anyone would like to rant, or if talking about the fic (or something else entirely!) helps cheer you up, I'm here for that too.
> 
> Next chapter will be in the new year. Happy holidays!


	8. 18

_‘I have loved you since we were eighteen. Long before we both thought the same thing. To be loved and to be in love. All I could do is say that these arms were made for holding you. I wanna love like you made me feel, when we were eighteen.’_

It feels like time can’t go any slower. All Louis wants to do is see Harry – to tell him how he feels, how he’s always felt. He’s itching for it; feeling so worked up that no matter the distraction, his mind always slips back to that face, those eyes, his heart. He can’t even concentrate on the TV anymore, catches himself eyes glazed; not reading, just scanning his social media feeds with no real purpose. He doesn’t just want to see Harry. He _needs_ to.

As fate would have it, that’s exactly what he gets.

The doorbell rings when Louis has been up for barely a half hour. It’s a Sunday, for God’s sake – he slept in. Later he’ll be thankful that he dressed before anything else, because answering the door in his Spiderman boxers wouldn’t really be ideal. So instead he answers it with messy bed hair, ripped jeans and a vintage band tee.

He’s a little disgruntled to be interrupted mid-way through eating his breakfast, considering he’s never this efficient in the mornings, not enough to actually make himself a meal, and now he won’t even get to finish it. Whatever momentary injustice he feels vanishes the second he opens his door to see who stands behind it.

Harry looks beautiful. Sure, he looks the same as he always does – hair a little messy, curling around his flushed cheeks; his lips pink and parted, breathily – like he rushed to get to Louis’ door. His shirt isn’t memorable; Louis is sure he’s worn better than a slightly baggy plain white t-shirt, yet he looks stunning regardless. He could probably wear a paper bag and Louis would find him unimaginably handsome.

“Hi.” Louis finally says, the way Harry’s eyes pierce him with such a drive making him want to look away. He doesn’t, though.

“Who do you want?” Harry asks, completely disregarding Louis’ greeting. He stays a metre from the door and Louis, just lingering there; suede boots knocking together nervously.

It’s too fucking early in the morning for this, at least by Louis’ standards. So he can’t help the stupid, “Excuse me?”

Harry’s expression is dark and determined but there’s no trace of rage there, Louis notes. It’s pained, if anything, and soft at the same time. He’s so soft.

“Two years ago in Pittsburgh you told me you didn’t want Eleanor,” he says calmly, not meeting Louis’ gaze as he carefully explains himself, “I never asked at the time.” Harry pauses, like just talking is laborious. His eyes finally flick back to Louis with an intensity he’s not ever felt before. “So I’m… I’m doin’ it now. Who do you want?”

Louis feels like he could throw up. _Pittsburgh._ Just that _name_ is enough to trigger an onslaught of heartbreaking memories. Of course he knows exactly what Harry is talking about – their fight in his dressing room after the show. He remembers it like a nightmare he can’t shake; so vivid and horrible. But unlike a dream it was real, and it happened. The consequences seemed disastrous at the time; but now, with Harry standing imploringly in front of him, the anguish of the memory is muffled somehow.

His breath hitches in his throat, knowing exactly what he wants to say to the love of his life. This is it. This is the moment. He has to steady his breathing, gulping and staring at Harry intensely.

“You,” Louis says finally, with such a weight behind it there’s no way Harry doesn’t feel it too, “Always you.”

They both go silent then, Louis standing at the door and Harry a metre from him. Harry closes his eyes a moment, inhaling deeply and slowly, nodding minutely – almost as if he’s trying to breathe back the tears. He looks… relieved. Louis can feel it too, that immediate release as soon as he spoke his mind.

Finally, though hardly any time has passed, Harry looks up at Louis. He steps forward, closing the distance between them in a single stride. He extends his hand gingerly; Louis can see it shaking as it hovers between them.

“Just…” Harry begins, so quietly and the lump in his throat stifling the word. He clears it loudly, gulping back whatever wavering tone exists in his voice. “Just… tell me to stop and…” his eyes glance to Louis’ lips, but Louis hasn’t a thing to say or even think, “And I will.”

Louis’ eyes flutter shut the moment Harry’s hand gently lands on his cheek, stomach doing somersaults as Harry’s lips press against his own. His heart is thudding loudly in his chest, he can feel it in his ears and the way his hands shake at his sides. Yet Harry’s kiss is so soft and tentative that it’s soothing somehow.

It’s so brief, though; and when Harry pulls back he’s searching Louis’ face for reassurance, for an affirmation.

“No, don’t,” Louis whispers in protest, eyes opening in delayed reaction. There’s a flicker of shock on Harry’s face and Louis quickly shakes his head. “ _Don’t stop_.” he elaborates, the twitch of a smirk before his hands find the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him back to his lips.

Unlike the first kiss, this one has fuel behind it. It’s not hesitant, but purposeful and passionate. The contact is slow and warm, Harry’s hands gripping Louis’ waist, bringing him closer. The longer they stand there, the deeper the kiss becomes – lips parted and tongues aligned. One of Louis’ hands stays in Harry’s hair, the other trailing down the front of his chest, suddenly awfully fond of that white t-shirt after all.

He wants to stay here forever, swimming in the feel of Harry’s lips, all of it so different to that time in the car. Louis wasn’t drunk by the end of the party that night, but the whole thing blurred at the edges like a dream. Harry had tasted of peppermint and his hot breath made Louis dizzy. Now, everything is in crystal clarity. Louis can feel every microscopic gesture, from the way Harry’s hands are gripping soft at Louis’ hips; slowly finding their way to the small of his back – to the gentle pressure of his tongue in his mouth. _Everything_.

Both Harry and Louis’ breathing is short and shaky in their eagerness, the pace of the kiss gradually gaining momentum. They mould together so perfectly, it’s corny to even think. Louis knows that, but it doesn’t stop it from being true. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s reminded that this isn’t where it ends – this is just the beginning. And they’ve got so much they’ve got to get through.

So he pulls back, almost the same time as Harry does (in sync, always in sync); their foreheads pressed together and eyes still closed. Harry’s hands clutch Louis’ back like he doesn’t ever want to let go.

“We should talk.” Louis mutters into the silence.

“Hmm,” Harry hums contently, nuzzling Louis in response. Louis smiles widely, feeling a rush of warmth in his heart. Harry clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah… you’re right.” He opens his eyes slowly, blinking at the ground as he straightens up. A lopsided hint of a smile appears on his face. “Lou… you’re on your tiptoes.”

He is – and he didn’t even notice. He figures it's an involuntary reaction when he’s kissing Harry.

“S’pose I am, yeah.” Louis mutters, embarrassed, blushing as he shifts back onto the heels of his feet. When he meets Harry’s eyes again, the taller one is beaming giddily at him. “ _C’mon_.” He almost rolls his eyes, yet somehow too mesmerised to really let his humour shine through. His hand searches for Harry’s, entwining them with a tight squeeze and guiding them both over the threshold.

Neither wants to let go once they’re inside. Instead, their hands grasp in the space between them side by side on the couch. With their knees knocking together, Louis just stares, eyes glazed, down at his lap, trying to piece together everything that’s just happened in the last ten minutes. They’ve got a lot to talk through and considering miscommunication was so detrimental last time, Louis is determined to speak his mind eloquently.

Finally, he puffs out his cheeks and pulls his hand away from Harry and into his own lap, fidgeting nervously.

“I was gonna come find you,” Louis says, quietly. He looks at Harry, whose eyes are already imploring upon him. “After–” he huffs with frustration, just remembering his behaviour in the carpark, “I don’t even know, to be honest with you,” He shrugs, “I was just waitin’. For what, I’m not sure.” He feels his cheeks heating up with each passing second. He’s so fucking awful at this. He’s tripping over his words and he doesn’t even know if he’s making sense. “Guess you beat me to it.”

Harry lets out a breathy laugh, dimples on full display. He doesn’t say anything, just bites down on his lower lip and blinks expectantly.

Louis looks at his lap a second.

“I lied about the kiss. The one at the party,” He announces, “I don’t regret it. And I wasn’t drunk either,” He’s talking kind of fast, but he can’t help it., “I wanted to do it.”

“So did I.”

“I think… it’s stupid, I thought… I thought maybe if we pretended it never happened… then everythin’ could go back to normal?” his voice raises at the end like a question, but it’s hardly something Harry can answer.

Louis won’t look at Harry still, fiddling with his thumbs in his lap. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him and somehow it’s motivation to continue. He heaves a sigh, rubbing his eyes and tilting his head back a moment before speaking slower.

“S’not _logical_ , I know that now. Just… I spent so long thinkin’…” he’s never found it so hard to speak in his whole life. He almost bows his head with the shame of it. “Convinced myself you didn’t feel the same.”

“I do feel the same,” Harry says smoothly and Louis admires his ability to stop the wavering in his tone.

Louis looks at him then, eyes searching deeply.

“I’m in love with you.” Harry speaks low and focused, eyes penetrating Louis’ soul, he’s sure. Like Harry wants to make sure Louis never forgets what it feels like to be told he’s loved. _Well it’s working._ Because Louis is sure this moment will be ingrained in his mind for the rest of his life. The way Harry looks when he says it; all determined and vulnerable. His lips still flushed from Louis’ kiss, his eyes wide and green. It’s just the same as when Harry looked at him the first time they kissed, years ago. _It’s the same_ . “I’m so in love with you, Lou, and I’ve always felt like this. I don’t know what it’s like _not_ to feel like this.”

Louis sighs lightly, his eyes feeling a little watery. He’s never heard Harry say it before. He knew, on some level, for as long as he can remember. But it’s so different to sit and be told, unconditionally. That no matter what happened between them, no matter what’s to come in the future – Harry will always love Louis.

He leans forward into his hands, shaking his head into his palms. He feels Harry shuffle closer, feels his hand splayed against his back, moving in comforting circles.

“I’m in love with you, Harry,” Louis declares, hands falling away as he turns toward Harry, “You’re all I want. All I’ve ever wanted since… since, _Jesus,_ I don’t even know. For as long as I’ve known you, I’ve loved you.” His stomach is filled with butterflies and his voice won’t stop trembling. It’s unexplainable, the feeling of being able to say all of this out loud to the person it matters most to.

Harry chews down on his bottom lip with a quiver, nodding as tears slip down his cheeks without warning. Louis wants to kiss it all away, except they still have so much to get through. All of it. From start to finish. So he restrains himself, opting just to sidle closer and wipe Harry’s tears away with his thumb gently. The contact brings the ghost of a content looking smile to the corner of Harry’s lips.

“I don’t know where it went wrong. Back – you know. Years ago.” Louis says after a while, reluctantly letting his hand drop from Harry’s cheek.  

“I guess it was a lot of things,” Harry supplies diplomatically, “All sort of… came together like a perfect storm.” He gestures vaguely, but it’s not with the same casual confidence Louis is used to seeing. Still, Harry manages to stay level headed, with a troubled frown and down-turned lips in concentration. You wouldn’t even know he’d been crying.

Louis nods seriously, mulling it all over.

“I thought you knew. I thought you always knew and when– and when things went…” Louis trails off, his throat constricting. He thinks again, now, of Pittsburgh. “I just thought it meant you didn’t love me back.”

Harry looks pained when he says it, like the very notion of not loving Louis is completely horrible.

“It wasn’t… like that for me. I knew, I guess.” Harry squints his eyes a moment, thinking. “But… I was so… _scared_ and unsure when it came to you… I didn’t know if you wanted me or… Eleanor…” He gulps, and Louis knows exactly what he’s thinking of. That night after the show, the way Harry said _then you go off with her_ ; spat like acid. “And then… I dunno. We weren’t talking and I thought I’d lost you.”  

“At first… at first, I guess I did like Eleanor.” Louis feels repulsed just thinking about it. He got along with her, sure. She was a good friend, really, even after all of it was over. But it just wasn’t the truth – their relationship. It was fake before anyone even considered it a publicity stunt. It was fake before it even began. It just took Louis a bit of time to realise. “I don’t know, I was young and confused. I didn’t really know that I was gay… I knew I liked boys… and I definitely knew I liked you, even in the X-Factor. But it was still dauntin’. I thought it would just go away, maybe. It didn’t make sense, I know.”

“It makes sense, Lou. I understand,” Harry’s hand squeezes Louis’ thigh reassuringly, “I felt… at the beginnin’… like I didn’t understand why I wasn’t… like everyone else.”

It breaks Louis’ heart to imagine a time where Harry didn’t feel confident in himself and his identity. That there was ever a version of the man he loves that felt shame for being his true self. Louis wonders if it would have been different for them had they grown up away from the spotlight. Louis is older, yet it felt like they went through their sexuality journey together. Had they not had people like Simon breathing down their necks, constantly watching and criticising, would they have fallen apart? But Louis knows the truth. Because every gay person experiences this on some level in their lives. Louis is just happy he had Harry along with him.

“Everyone kept askin’ us about girls,” Harry says, disgruntled, “They all thought I was some… some kind of Casanova or somethin’, and I couldn’t live up to any of it. Didn’t even want to. I just got scared.”

Louis looks down, fiddling with his fingers as he thinks about it.

“You know when I had that meeting with Simon? After we’d kissed?”

Harry nods. “You wouldn’t tell me what happened but Eleanor showed up soon after.”

“Yeah.” Louis flinches.

He’s never gone into detail about it; that meeting. The truth is, no one really knows what happened. He remembers it like it was yesterday. Simon specifically plucking Louis aside on his own, like he was weeding out the weak. He knew exactly what to say, what to threaten Louis with to get his way. It makes Louis’ stomach churn just to think of it.

Louis and Harry were increasingly affectionate in public since the first kiss. So much so that management was threatening to push the Caroline Flack narrative further than it had already been taken. And Louis remembered how uncomfortable that made Harry, how many nights he had to soothe him and promise the lies would stop eventually. He hadn’t known at the time that, that in itself was a lie.

So it was handed to Louis – on a silver platter – _you can continue this way and Harry can be punished for it, or you can do as we say_. Sure, they didn’t say it in those exact words, but that was the gist of it. There was only one option, really. Because Louis would do anything to protect Harry. _I knew you’d see sense_ ; Simon had said with that horrific sneer.

“He was gonna push that womaniser shit on you,” Louis says, a bad taste in his mouth just saying it out loud, “I wasn’t gonna let that happen. He said if I did it, y’know the whole… _dating Eleanor_ thing... then they wouldn’t use you like that.” He looks up at Harry, whose eyes are glassy with tears again. “Did it anyway, didn’t he? The fuckin’ snake. Should have known, but I guess I was naïve.” He sighs in the hopes that it’ll calm himself down. Harry’s large, reassuring hand still resting on his knee helps some, too.

“You trusted the people in charge of us. That’s not something to be ashamed of, Lou. We all deserved better.”

“Simon made it seem like it was my choice. Got into me head and messed with me.” Louis continues. “And the thing is – I wasn’t even ashamed of what we were doin’.” He lets out a cold, breathy laugh as he looks at Harry. “I was a bit confused to begin with, yeah; you were me best mate. I didn’t expect…” he trails off, feeling as if he’s losing himself in his own words. “But _never_ ashamed. The way you made me feel wasn’t somethin’ I wanted to hide. I wanted everyone to know.”

Harry’s face is flushed again, the tears threatening to spill, yet he remains silent. He’s listening intently, his eyes wide and loving. It makes it that much easier to talk about this, even if it makes Louis want to cry too.

“I just wanted to protect you, Haz,” Louis’ throat feels dry and he can’t swallow, but he ignores it, “And he convinced me dating Eleanor was how to do that. So I had to make it real in me head… told myself I liked her, but… I didn’t, and–” He’s getting so riled up, his heart thudding and cheeks hot, “I thought we’d be fine.” He mumbles.

“But we weren’t.” Harry finishes sadly.

“We weren’t.”

There’s a silence, the pair of them sitting close and looking at one another intently. It’s intense, it really is. But Louis didn’t expect anything less considering the situation. Talking it through is good. It’s _great_ , actually. They need to do it.

“When you confronted me about it … I thought you just… like it was all unspoken between us… and then you caught me off guard.” Louis searches for the right words, compartmentalizing as best as he can the memories from that night. He can’t let them consume him, he has to explain. “And shit, it was so awful, Haz. I couldn’t’ve explained myself even if I wanted to. I was a fucking idiot, I was literally speechless – and I was so upset that you didn’t…” he heaves an exasperated sigh, “See how madly in love I was with you.”

“It… it _was_ unspoken. I don’t know what happened, Lou. I just…” Harry gestures lazily with his hands, rings glinting momentarily where they hit the beam of sunlight shining through the window. “She was on tour with us and you wouldn’t talk to me… the way you were together…” He looks dazed for a second before he mentally shakes the memory, “I’m so sorry. I should have been patient, I should have realized what it was like for you.” Harry barely breathes between his words but it still comes out slow, a thickness in it that gives away just how affected he is by the situation.

“I’m sorry, too,” Louis replies, every syllable spoken as light as a feather, “I’m sorry that I didn’t know how to talk to you about all of it. I just… kept it all inside, which was stupid. It made it worse, I know that now.”

Harry exhales deeply, closing his eyes as his hand rubs his face in a lazy contemplation. He fingers drag up through the roots of his hair shakily. “I thought I made it all up in my head.” His mouth twitches at the side, a grimace almost. “I kept thinking that it was my fault for feeling somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to… like somehow I’d just gotten us all wrong.”

Louis places his hand atop Harry’s in the wake of what he says, gently squeezing. “You weren’t wrong. We weren’t just kids fooling around. It was so much more than that.”

“I always wonder about… what would have happened if I’d just… _listened_.” Harry looks pained then and Louis feels it like a stab in the chest, as if whatever Harry feels he feels just as strongly. Souls entwined. “Like. If I’d let you explain…” his voice tapers off, gulping back a sort of sob.

Louis watches him with anguish, hand instinctively tipping Harry’s chin up to look him in the eyes. “Hey, no,” he mutters soft and husky, shaking his head minutely, “You didn’t know.”

The men stare fiercely at one another, saying with their eyes everything that words can’t. There’s still so much to talk about. Years worth of it, really. Louis wants to know everything about Harry – hear the stories about the tattoos he doesn’t recognize, and who's been etching those smile lines in the corner of his eyes without Louis. He wants to know where each ring on Harry’s long fingers are from, and relearn where every freckle and birthmark are placed on his skin. He even wants to ask how long Harry plans to grow his hair out for. And he’s sure by the look on Harry’s face that he wants all of that, too. It should be overwhelming – how many blank spaces in the story of their lives together that need to be filled.

Now, though, they have all the time in the world for that. And Louis already feels as if the weight has been lifted by what they’ve discussed. Like whatever was pinning them down has freed them; now they float high into the sky.

The butterflies have settled in Louis chest, soaring and fluttering in a way that makes him feel warm and giddy. Because for the first time in years he feels completely whole. The burden has been released. _It’s fucking amazing_.

Harry leans in then, meeting Louis lips with his own in a gentle gesture. It’s a chaste kiss, fingers entwined at Louis’ leg and Harry’s curls tickling his cheek. When they pull away, they stay close – pressing foreheads together and sighing contently.

“Is this real or am I dreaming this?” Harry says quietly, his green eyes intently observing Louis. He bites his lower lip a fraction. “Am I gonna wake up tomorrow and things still won’t be fixed?”

“It’s real.” Louis promises with a ghost of a smile. He feels dizzy with love. He blinks slowly, feeling completely overwhelmed in all the right ways. “At least I think it is. Watched ‘Inception’ the other day though, so anything’s possible.”

Harry laughs wearily, his face breaking into a wide grin. “I love you.”

“I love you.” Louis affirms, pursing his lips to stop from gushing like a fool.

When they kiss again, it’s with a stronger intent. Louis leans into it, hands finding Harry’s neck and grasping. Pursed lips quickly open, beckoning entrance of tongues; wet and hot in the collision. It’s slow and lingering, the both of them drinking in every touch and taste to the fullest.

Harry’s hands find Louis’ lower back and Louis takes it upon himself to slide onto his lap, straddling Harry’s waist tightly. He wants to be as close as he possibly can to Harry, their chests pressed up against one another and hands clutching tight. Arms wrapped wholly around Louis, Harry leans back against the couch cushions, gently taking Louis down with him. Louis is completely on top of Harry now, heavily pressing himself torso to torso, kissing long and deep. He can feel Harry’s hands wind around his lower back, palming gently against Louis’ arse. Louis rolls his hips forward involuntarily at the contact, pressing against Harry’s crotch, feeling his bulge harden as they kiss heatedly.

So of course godly intervention is in order. The phone rings loud and insistent, a low chuckle rumbling from Harry at the interruption. Louis doesn’t know whose phone it is – the generic ringtone could belong to either of them. But Harry hesitates into the kiss as if planning to answer.

“Don’t you dare pick that up.” Louis warns into Harry’s mouth, smirking slightly. Harry just whines a little, to which Louis pulls back and raises his eyebrows to show he means business.

The phone continues to ring, Harry’s eyes pointedly looking over Louis to the coffee table where the sound resonates from. The way he bites his lip in faux innocence is almost too much for Louis to handle. He smirks down at him before burrowing into Harry’s neck and kissing along his jaw, teasingly.

Harry groans out of frustration, clutching Louis just that bit tighter the moment his lips are at his neck. “ _Lou_ ,” he protests softly. “Could be…” Louis can feel Harry swallow slowly under his kiss. “Could be important…”

The shrill ringing finally gets the best of them both and Harry lifts himself up with a reluctant sigh. Louis moves minutely out of Harry’s way, remaining half seated in his lap.

Harry’s arm stretches for the phone, cheeks flushed and hair a little messier than before. When he eyes Louis, Louis scowls at him in mock anger. Harry sees through it instantly, grinning widely back at him.

Colour drains from Harry’s features the moment he answers the phone. Louis knows why, seated so close that the bellowing voice from the speaker is recognisable. Liam Payne. _That son of a bitch_.

“Harry?” Liam echoes through the phone, Louis and Harry grimacing guiltily at one another in silence.

“H-Hello.” Harry states with a stutter, frowning at Louis and mouthing ‘Liam’ which only makes Louis snigger.

“Why’re you answerin’ Louis’ phone?” Liam asks, affronted.

Harry’s eyes widen and Louis finds it near impossible not to bark with laughter, covering his mouth to suppress it. What a simple yet catastrophic blunder on their part. Only, Louis is too happy and love sick to really care at this point (though he knows he probably should).

“Erm,” Harry runs a hand through his hair and stretches his mouth to shake the grin, attempting to take this seriously. He clears his throat, any trace of humour in his features gone in an instant; replaced with furrowed brows and tight lips. “We’re just… hangin’ out.”

Louis doesn’t bother listening very closely to the other line, absorbed so fully in watching Harry. With a devilish smirk at his lips, Louis leans in and begins sucking hot hickies along the side of Harry’s neck. Harry stiffens at the contact momentarily before his whole body relaxes and his eyes flutter shut. The sole purpose of this is to distract Harry, of course. It just might help that Louis enjoys it quite a bit too.

“No…” Harry says dazedly in response to something Liam says. His breathing is ragged, skin soft and yielding to the touch. His eyes are still closed and he’s frowning lightly, concentrating with all his might. It makes Louis feel triumphant, his hand gently cupping Harry’s jaw as he leaves reddened marks across his neck. “No, we won’t…” Harry’s head lolls a little to the side and he sucks in a breath. _God,_ Louis thinks. He’s never been so hungry to touch anyone in his whole life.

“We won’t be comin’ into the studio today,” Harry finally explains, “Everythin’s fine.” He nods minutely to something Liam says, before realising Liam can’t see him and he mumbles a ‘yes’.

The call is over quick enough, Harry huffing loudly the moment he hangs up. Louis pulls away from his neck, inspecting his work with a smug expression. There will be very obvious love bites there tomorrow, he’s sure. Even now, the pink and red skin is heating up. Even in his confidence, Louis feels a squirming in his stomach, a bundle of nervous energy. He didn’t expect _this_ – of all things – today.

Harry shifts uncomfortably, Louis knowing exactly why; his own jeans feel a little tight in the crotch region.

“Where were we?” Harry says, coming out a lot more strained then he must have meant it. They aren’t going to talk about Liam or about anyone, really. It’s not the time for that. _Really_ not the time. Later, they can decide where to go from here. Who to tell, what to do. The time now is for them and them alone.

Suddenly Louis’ cheeks feel hot. “D’you wanna…” he gestures upstairs, eyebrows raised a little and a mumbled noise accompanying it. Harry holds back a smirk. “Upstairs?” Louis elaborates, but it’s still completely vague.

Harry’s expression is unreadable; watching Louis with such a mesmerised glint in his eyes that it can only mean good things. He bites his lower lip distractedly, drawing Louis’ attention there in a blink of an eye. Now that he can kiss Harry without fear of repercussions, without worrying about what it all means – he wants to do it for hours on end.

“Should we be taking this slow?” He finally asks. When Louis simply frowns, Harry sits up a bit straighter and adds, "Like… should we wait a bit. A day or so. Let things settle in… you might… change your mind…”

“I won’t.” Louis promises quickly and without an ounce of doubt. 

“I mean like… is this rushing things?” Harry bites his lower lip, and Louis can't help but stare. 

“I’ve been waiting… years for this.”

Harry lets out a sigh of relief, and Louis too feels the relaxation fill his body.

“Thank _God_ ," Harry sighs, "Yeah, no, Christ – me too," He laughs a little awkwardly, "I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of course.” 

After a lingering second, Harry nods slowly and holds back the grin, all coy and unmistakably sexy. _Jesus Christ._

All Louis can think is thank God he showered earlier. And also, that for once, his room is not the depiction of a nuclear bomb aftermath. It’s actually kind of clean, at least by his standards. The blinds are still drawn, late morning sun peeking through so the room is dimly lit in a glowy kind of way.

It’s not until he’s lying on his bed, Harry hovering over him on the verge of leaning in, does Louis realise how fucking nervous he really is. As if all the confidence has been knocked out of him. Like the reality is dawning on him right there in that second, that this is actually about to happen. He’s going to get Harry, all of Harry, to himself in the most intimate way possible. His heart is thudding wildly in his chest, so much so that he fears if Harry gets any closer it’d give himself away. And they haven’t even taken their clothes off _. Shit._

“Do you… have… _you know_ …” Harry asks quietly, his hair falling around his face.

“Have what?” Louis asks, though the humour is stifled a little by his shaky tone. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, H.”

Harry rolls his eyes and shifts his weight onto his elbow, lying more on his side now. “ _Lube and stuff_ , you idiot.” How he makes that word sound cute and adorable is beyond Louis.

“A bit forward, don’t you think!” Louis says indignantly. He quirks an eyebrow, looking playfully at Harry. “Aren’t you going to buy me a drink first?”

Harry glowers, unable to keep the poker face for very long before a dimpled grin plasters his face. _He’s so fucking beautiful,_ Louis thinks.

“You’re lucky I’m madly in love with you enough to put up with this.”

Louis’ stomach does ridiculous things when he hears that. He’s sure he won’t ever get sick of it.

“Am I, now?” he says, playing at indifference.

“Hmm.” Harry smiles dreamily, lifting himself back up onto the palms of his hands splayed either side of Louis. He lowers himself a fraction, kissing Louis in a way that distracts from any and everything. And when he grinds his hips, rolling against Louis – he’s completely unable to think of anything remotely witty anymore.

As it happens, he does have lube – and ‘stuff’. Between kisses he quickly locates them and leaves it on the bedside table for… later. When they’re ready. And then he’s back underneath Harry, thighs wrapped around the taller man’s waist and feeling as if his skin is burning hot.

At first it’s a blur. Louis rushes out of nerves, kissing fiercely as he clutches at Harry’s t-shirt. It’s off within seconds, tossed to the end of the bed, all of Harry’s naked glory is before him. He pulls Harry down, lips crashing in a feverish hunger. He can’t help it; this animalistic need rising in his chest. His hands are wobbling and he tightens his grip in the hopes that it’ll steady them. It’s not as if he wants it to happen fast and hard, but he’s consumed by the feel of Harry, so much so that he can’t stop himself.

But then Harry pulls back, gently stopping Louis to stare intently into his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Harry mumbles, lips blotched red and eyes staring him down, “Slow…” he adds, leaning in and kissing Louis’ cheek in a fluttering touch, “We’ve got all the time in the world.”  

Louis lets out the breath he’s been holding at Harry’s words, blinking slowly. He gulps and then nods.

“Yeah,” he says uncharacteristically low and hoarse, “Yes. You’re right. Just a bit nervous.” Laughing a little then, albeit awkwardly.

“Me too, Lou.” Harry says seriously, and Louis knows it’s true by the way his hands shake a fraction.

They’ve waited so long for this. Louis spent days and weeks daydreaming of a world where he could kiss Harry anywhere and everywhere, a world where they could whisper sweet nothings to one another, where Louis could know – _really_ know – just how deeply loved he is by Harry.

Now it’s here and the significance of it is not lost to him, not one bit. Just by the look on Harry’s face, Louis knows he feels the same. It’s reassuring, how in tune they are with one another’s feelings. Just knowing how important this is for Harry, that it’s just as special to him, calms Louis’ nerves enough. His breathing becomes just that little bit less laboured.

There’s silence in the wake of Harry’s confession; green eyes upon blue. Louis’ chest rises and falls with less intensity, and his cheeks don’t feel so prickly with the heat of it. It’s just him and Harry. This is right. This is _safe_. He wants to remember every second of this moment; the way Harry’s mouth tastes vaguely of whatever gum he’s been chewing, the way his arm muscles flex with the weight of himself, like he’s being delicate with Louis beneath him. Louis’ eyes trail along Harry’s torso, looking at the birds and the butterfly tattoos inked there with awe. He’s never felt more at home in his whole life.

Louis tentatively lifts himself up enough to initiate a soft kiss, fluttering his eyelashes a fraction before they close upon the contact. This time it’s unbelievably gentle, and when Harry responds with the same tenderness, Louis eases back against the pillows.  

Harry’s hands tremble at Louis’ cheeks nervously, barely touching as he kisses him chastely. He drags his hand carefully along Louis’ arm, tickling the skin there before he starts tugging at the edge of Louis’ shirt. When Louis figures out what he’s trying to do, he lifts himself up just a fraction to help pull the shirt up over his head.

Once they’re both shirtless, the feeling of skin against skin is completely intoxicating. Louis forgot what it was like – to be this close to someone, to trust them so completely. Realises he only ever really had that with Harry, and now look where they are. He feels a rush of warmth all over his body with their chests aligned, Harry kissing him slow and sensually. He doesn’t even know where to _touch_ Harry – so overwhelmed by every inch of the man before him.

Hands lazily move across chests – Louis tangling his fingers through Harry’s hair, eliciting a satisfied sigh from the boy atop him, hot and breathy against his lips. Each kiss is longer and deeper than the one before; lips parting and tongues entering in small licks.

Occasionally Harry bucks down against Louis’ crotch and he responds with a languid rock upward. The grinding is slow and teasing, making Louis’ dick swell at the very feeling of Harry against him. When he tightens his thighs around Harry, the friction makes them both let out soft moans.

Through kisses, Harry’s hands make their way to Louis’ jeans and he begins unbuttoning. When it doesn’t undo in an instant he lets out a muttered curse out of frustration and Louis laughs breathily against his lips. His jeans are off soon enough, though, and then so are Harry’s.   

Too busy kissing to be able to stare at Harry’s body like he wants to, Louis resorts to feeling his way; hands rippling across Harry’s chest and sliding along the waistline of his boxers. It sends a shiver down Harry’s spine, sensitive in the lower regions. When Louis’ hand stills, Harry nudges forward a little against it encouragingly. Smirking a bit, Louis lets his hands slip under the fabric, teetering dangerously around the place Harry most desperately wants to be touched. Instead of giving into Harry’s quiet whimpers and sharp inhales, Louis pulls on the waistband, removing the underwear completely.

There’s time now, to gape shamelessly at Harry’s naked body, and Louis is more than willing to do so. It’s overwhelming, just how beautiful Harry is. Louis finds himself frozen in place, hands raised and mouth ajar. Feeling as if he could lie there for hours, mesmerised by Harry’s dewy pink skin, the chiselled definition of his muscles and the way the laurel tattoos draw his eyes low on Harry’s body.

 _We have all the time in the world._ It certainly feels that way, eyeing one another with a deep longing, not even really touching or grinding or _anything_. Just soaking each other up with a single look.

He’s seen Harry naked before. The boy has never been shy about his body (and Louis knows exactly why). Granted, the last time Louis had the privilege was years ago. Harry’s changed a lot since then. He’s bigger in every respect now; broader shoulders and stronger thighs. Yet somehow everything about him is smooth and soft; lightly toned muscles. Louis wonders how he can have adorably round love handles and a very distinct lower abdominal V lines at the same time.

Harry continues to be an Earth-defying beauty. Louis isn’t sure why he’s surprised.

Once his own underwear is discarded across the room, Louis stays still, lying back with legs bent at the knees and waiting as Harry leans across to grab the condom and lube. Everything building up to this moment feels like it’s fallen away, like there’s just the two of them and nothing else matters.

“I love you.” Louis whispers huskily and unexpectedly when Harry repositions himself between his legs.

Harry looks up at him through his long lashes, a curl cascading down his shoulder in the gravity of it. “I love you.” He responds, a light smile playing at the corner of his plump lips. His hand drags up Louis’ chest absentmindedly, find its way to Louis’ jaw before he leans in again, chests pressed together and lips locked.

It feels like Louis’ mind is just static after that, feeling the contact of Harry – _all of him_ – against him. Both of them are completely hard, Louis can feel Harry’s dick stiffly against him and it’s very fucking distracting. But Harry kisses him deeply, rubbing minutely against him in needy circles, effectively drawing a high moan from Louis.

They ease into it; softly spoken encouragement muttered into necks and against lips. Harry kisses along Louis’ _It Is What It Is_ tattoo, all the way down to the skin of his inner thigh; sensitive and soft. For the most part, Louis is unable to speak – especially when Harry’s smooth fingers begin working him open. He focuses on steadying his ragged breaths, his body clenching and unclenching as Harry’s fingers sink inside. He’s completely exposed, naked and bare, his skin feels as if it's on fire.

“Good?” Harry asks quietly but with determination, looking up from between his legs. His eyes are wide and imploring and his hands so delicate.

“Mhm,” Louis hoarsely replies, craning to meet his gaze, “S’good. _Yeah_.”

Louis sucks in a sharp intake of breath and Harry hesitates above him, waiting for the go ahead. Eyes shut and brows furrowed, Louis nods eagerly, _yes yes yes._ Harry’s hands are steady and warm at Louis’ hips, levelling the unintentional rocking upward Louis is doing.

“M’gonna…” Harry begins, his voice all dry and rugged. He’s leaning over Louis, a little further down, face hovering over his chest. His eyes trail Louis’ body and he gulps slowly. “Gonna do it now, yeah?”

Louis would, if it was any other occasion, laugh and tease Harry for his vagueness. He’s done it plenty in the past – in interviews and while alone with him. Harry is anything but articulate and right now, with what they’re about to do – what they’ve _already_ been doing – it’s exemplified. But this is no ordinary moment (Louis wonders if there are any when it comes to Harry, everything always so extraordinary). So somehow it’s incredibly hot, just how dazed Harry looks and the drawl in his voice, all distracted by his need to be inside Louis. _God._ Louis wants it now.

“Yeah,” Louis responds, “ _Yes_ , please.”

There’s a bit of finessing at first. Harry positions himself between Louis’ thighs, slowly but surely entering, using his own hand to guide his dick forward. Louis tenses at the first touch, fisting the blanket beneath him and biting back the array of swear words he wants to use in the moment. He cranes his neck, wanting to see the way Harry looks that first few seconds inside him. It’s a godly sight, it really is. The way Harry’s fingers pinch tight into the flesh at Louis’ waist, running his free hand through his tangling hair. The way he sinks his teeth deep into his lower lip and threads his eyebrows in concentration. Louis can tell by his expression that it’s taking all of Harry to restrain himself, remain slow and patient. _We’ve got all the time in the world._

“ _Fuck_.” Louis cusses despite himself, uttered breathily. He forces his eyes shut and tilts his head back against the pillows, feeling consumed by Harry. His senses are on high alert; heart beating like a drum and nerves on fire. With his vision black, all he feels is Harry and all he hears is the satisfied, eager moan from him as he fills Louis up.

Louis opens his eyes in time to see Harry shudder forward, the palms of his hands dipping into the mattress either side of Louis’ shoulders. Louis brackets his legs with a tight grip and Harry stutters an ‘oh’ at the friction. Their mouths find each other, kissing deeply as Harry begins to thrust slow and lazy.

Both of them are so quiet to begin with, Louis straining up into Harry’s movements until a kind of rhythm is established. He clutches at Harry’s lower back, begging without words for Harry to press into him harder and deeper. When he complies, Harry’s hands dig further into the duvet, grounding him through the heavenly pressure of being joined with Louis like this.

In a roaming daze, Louis’ hand moves from Harry’s back and across to his fingers that are digging into the fabric. Harry seems to refocus his eyes then, his pupils blown and glassy. The second he registers Louis’ gesture; he lifts his palm for him to interlope their hands, half a smile ghosting at his mouth.

Biting down on his lip a little, Louis’ gaze trails from Harry’s features to lower down, where their bodies connect. He feels a wave of arousal at the sight of Harry grinding into him, his stomach muscles rippling in the thrust. Louis could stare at the movement, _back and forth, back and forth_ , for hours.

When Harry presses inward a little longer, Louis’ head tilts back on instinct and their foreheads hit each other with a resonating bump.

“Ow!” Louis winces, rubbing the spot with his free hand and laughing.

“Sorry!” Harry laughs in response, an octave higher than usual and a goofy grin on his face.

Harry and Louis giggle in unison, their heads pressed together in the wake of the accident. Harry’s hair falls into his face, tickling Louis’ cheek as they beam at one another. He’s so close that some of his features are blurred, or maybe that’s just because of how fucking dream-like this whole thing is.

Louis’ hand shakily reaches up to Harry’s face – the smiles fading but gazes unwavering – and tucks the stray strand of hair back behind his ear. The tender motion is written all over Harry’s content face and before anything can be said, he presses a soft kiss onto Louis’ lips. Louis’ chest surges with warmth and the butterflies flutter in his stomach again and it makes him think: _after all this time, after everything… and this boy can still bring butterflies to my stomach._

_How did I get so lucky?_

Harry’s name is all Louis can think about and he’s sure he’s said it over and over with each passing minute. He whispers it like a secret, he moans it low and hoarse and he breathes it in short hitched sighs. Every time Louis says it, Harry groans just that bit louder until it’s too much and he dives his head into the crook of Louis’ neck, beginning to leave hot, wet kisses there.  

Every touch is amplified with Harry’s thrusts. So when Harry’s mouth trails across to Louis’ ear, moaning in a hot puff of air, it sends a shiver along Louis’ spine. He clutches Harry tighter, digging his fingers into the back of his neck in a way that triggers a rock forward that’s harder and faster. It catches Louis a little by surprise and he gasps shakily, letting his hands thread through Harry’s hair to keep him grounded in the moment.  

Something in the way Harry rocks forward on this angle, with his head resting in the crook of Louis’ neck, seems to find Louis’ prostate. He can’t even control the loud whimper that escapes, feeling a flood of pleasure throughout his body. Harry’s head lifts up and he looks at Louis with mild surprise. Louis has been pretty quiet until that point. Now, though, he’s too far gone to filter the sounds tumbling out of his mouth.

“ _Ah_ ,” he sounds out airily, “There,” He whines, eyes tightly shut, “ _There, there, there_.”

“I know, baby,” Harry coaxes in a husky drawl before nuzzling into Louis’ neck again, kissing his jaw and thrusting into him, hitting the same spot over and over.  

Harry’s hand unloops from Louis’, though Louis barely registers it, resorting to tugging at the bed sheets now that his hand is free. Harry’s fingers roam down the front of Louis’ chest in a messy caress before finding his dick, cupping it in his large hand.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis cries almost warningly, his voice all shaky.

“Hmm,” Harry hums back, continuing to pump Louis’ dick lazily. Louis can practically hear the smile in his voice, knowing just how smug Harry must be to watch Louis fall to pieces under him. It somehow makes it just that bit hotter.

Harry hoists Louis’ backside up just a fraction, using his hands to spread Louis’ arse cheeks for deeper access. The action elicits embarrassingly loud groans from the pair of them, though Louis is hardly worried about how he’s appearing right now. Instead, he simply lifts his legs up a little higher on Harry’s torso, stretching as Harry leans back down to kiss him.

Louis’ senses are overwhelmed, Harry’s hot breath coming out short against the skin of his neck, causing ripples throughout Louis’ body as he gets closer to the edge. Harry can probably sense it; just how undone Louis is getting. Possibly because they’re entangled body and mind, but more likely due to how talkative Louis has become; babbling cusses in huffed breaths.

When his orgasm finally hits, all the words he’s been moaning dissolve on his tongue. His mouth forms a delicate ‘o’ and his mind goes blank, slate wiped clean. He clings to Harry, who fucks him through the wave. It rushes over him like a warm shower after a long day, it has his head spinning like an obscenely good high and all he can think is _Harry, Harry, Harry_.

Once he’s half-way down from the high, Louis takes no time to help Harry over the edge. He tugs at Harry’s hair the way he knows he likes it and whispers sweet nothings.

“C’mon, baby,” Louis encourages, carefully watching Harry’s concentration.

Louis is not a songwriter for nothing, he’s always had a way with words. In the bedroom that’s no different and the colourful display of dirty talk he mutters to Harry is enough to get him to his climax. Harry is completely incoherent the moment it hits, groaning loud and long with his forehead digging into Louis’ collarbone. After a few panting seconds, he tilts his head back, flicking the hair out from around his flushed face, eyes painted shut and jaw slack.

Louis is sure Harry is at his most beautiful mid-orgasm. Of course, Louis will think Harry is at his most beautiful in ten minutes’ time, when they’re lying sleepily together in a post-sex haze. He’ll be thinking it in a week, when Harry laughs so hard at something Louis tells him that he has to hold something to balance him. He’ll think it when they’re on tour and Harry is confidently belting lyrics to a stadium full of people, truly in his element. And if Louis is lucky, he’ll be thinking it years from now, their lives always fated to collide.

Harry is beautiful, that’s just the truth.

Eventually Harry tunes back into the moment, eyes opening in the way Louis imagines they would in the mornings; all tired and lazy. He doesn’t seem to care about the mess on his hands and Louis doesn’t care about his sticky chest either. Harry gently pulls out and falls across Louis’ chest with a sigh.

With Harry’s head resting at the ‘It Is What It Is’ tattoo, Louis’ fingers run through his messy dark curls absentmindedly. Harry just hums contentedly at the caress and returns the gesture by finding Louis’ other hand and drawing little circles into the palm. It’s ticklish, although Louis’ body feels a little like jelly in the glowing aftermath, so he feels nothing but drowsy at the touch.

Neither speak for what feels like a lifetime, both smiling softly to themselves. Louis is sure he drifts in and out of a light slumber, only regaining consciousness every time Harry shifts slightly or nuzzles into him. His hair tickles a bit; Louis doesn’t mind, though.

Harry lifts his head to rest his chin on his hands flat across Louis’ chest.

“We’re a bit of a mess.” he states low and to the point. He has bright eyes and a smile at his lips. He looks how Louis feels – utterly over the moon with joy and love.

Louis just responds with a guilty expression, admitting it without words. Harry grins lopsidedly and cranes his neck to give his cheek a peck.

“You’re cute.” Harry mumbles once he pulls back, admiring Louis fondly.

“Not so bad yourself.” Louis replies, biting his lower lip to stop the grin that’s threatening to take over his entire face.

Harry lifts himself up with a tired sigh, and scrambles off the bed before stretching. Louis stares and Harry smirks back at him, his tongue licking at the corner of his mouth a fraction. That smug expression tells Louis he knows exactly what he’s doing and the affect it has on him. _Arsehole._

“Can I use your shower?” Harry asks politely.

“Course, just down the hall.” Louis gestures vaguely, lifting himself up and leaning against his arm.

Harry looks exasperated.

“ _With you_ , dickhead.”

“Oh,” Louis pauses, laughing bashfully, “You don’t need to ask.” He finally says, rising from the bed and approaching Harry with a new-found shyness.

“M’kay.” Harry mumbles back, his cheeks just as flushed as Louis’.

It’s stupid, it’s _embarrassing_ even, that they’re acting like crushing teenagers. After all that they’ve been through, and especially after what they just did – it’s completely unnecessary to still be blushing. Louis can’t stop himself though, and he sees no reason why they should. They’re happy, unbelievably so. Nothing else matters.  

This is the best shower Louis has ever had the privilege of experiencing. Harry likes the water just as hot as he does, invigorating against the skin and verging on the edge of _too_ hot – but not quite. There’s no such thing as personal space, partly because the shower room is hardly made for two, but mostly because they can’t get enough of each other. It’s not sexual, how close they stand. There’s no hidden motive from either of them other than wanting to be near each other, wanting to soak in each other’s presence. Harry grabs the soap, taking it upon himself to scrub Louis chest tenderly. Louis in turn runs his hands through Harry’s wet hair, foaming it up with the shampoo and rinsing it under the tap. The whole thing is so sweet, and Louis is almost crestfallen when they’re finished.

Afterward, when they’re fully dressed (Harry looking devilishly handsome in one of Louis’ tracksuit bottoms that hug him in all the right places), Louis drags Harry back to the bedroom. Although, it should be noted it’s hardly dragging considering how willing Harry is to follow.

They change the sheets and doona cover just to be on the safe side, though the smell of sex isn’t so bad. And then they dive under the covers, Louis feeling as if he’s on cloud nine. Harry tugs the blankets up and over them so that they’re totally cocooned in the sheets, facing each other and beaming ear to ear.

The sun has risen further in the sky, shining more persistent through the half-drawn blinds and creating a glowing light under the sheets.

Louis is wearing Harry’s white t-shirt, virtually swimming in it. He thinks he must look a little ridiculous, though the feeling doesn’t last once Harry makes it clear how fond of the look he is. He tugs at the hem, laces his hand under the fabric and caresses Louis’ stomach. It’s so gentle and soothing, Louis feels he could just lie here forever.

It’s not long before the trapped air begins to warm up, Harry’s cheeks flushed a light pink and Louis feeling a little sleepy. Reluctantly, they come up for fresh air, heads poking out of the duvet with huffed breathes.

“Like a bloody sauna under there.” Louis comments, grinning. He shuffles onto his side, watching Harry intently.

Harry laughs and wriggles closer, winding his arm around Louis’ waist and resting his head close, sharing the pillow.

“Very… _hot._ ” Harry replies, raising his eyebrows suggestively. It makes Louis bark with laughter, holding back the desire to tease Harry for his terrible, terrible jokes. (Seriously, they’re _so bad_ ). Harry looks pretty proud of himself though, just for the achievement of bringing a smile to Louis’ face. It’s frankly adorable, if Louis is honest.

“Harry…” begins Louis after a short silence, biting his lower lip a little.

“Lou,” Harry responds expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Am I… are we… _what I mean is_ …” he gulps, feeling like an absolute idiot, “D’you wanna be my boyfriend?”

The smile on Harry’s face is answer enough. But just in case Louis doesn’t get it, he nods, “Yes, please.”

Their legs intertwined under the covers, Louis closes the space between their faces with a delicate kiss on the lips. He can feel Harry smile into it, just so fucking happy. He knows the feeling, it’s mutual. Everything about the kiss is soft, Louis savouring just how plump and smooth Harry’s lips are.

When he pulls away, Harry’s eyes open slowly and he bites down on his bottom lip.

“Boyfriend.” Harry says, all chuffed and smiley.

“Boyfriend.” Louis affirms, feeling his heart soar with pride. He’s so dizzy with it, he can’t even believe this is actually happening. Harry is Louis’ boyfriend. Louis is Harry’s boyfriend. This is his life now. He gets to love Harry openly and without fear. He spent so long suppressing it, told himself over and over that a life with Harry just wasn’t possible. Even when things hadn’t gone sour between them yet, somehow just saying how they felt seemed to hold too much weight. Now the word is light as a feather at Louis’ lips and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying it. _Boyfriend._

“Get this off ya head.” Louis says, already tugging at the towel twisting Harry’s hair up out of his face. They’ve settled into a comfortable position for spooning and Louis has a face full of rough towel material. Needless to say, he’s not pleased.

“But my hair’s still damp.” Harry grumbles, craning his neck just a fraction to look over his shoulder at Louis.

“Don’t care.”

“Alright, chill out,” Harry says with mock attitude, “Bossy boots.”

“Cute pet name.” Louis quips back, smirking coyly. He pulls at the towel completely and throws it aside carelessly, revealing Harry’s damp tangled curls.

“Yeah?” Harry remarks, returning his face forward and readjusting now that his hair is down, “M’trying it out. Testin’ the waters.”

Louis doesn’t have to see Harry’s face to know he’s smiling. Instead of replying with something equally cheeky and flirtatious, Louis simply hugs Harry closer, his arm looping around his waist and finding his hand to hold. He could complain about the head full of wet hair in his face, practically suffocating him. He won’t though, because he really doesn’t mind. Instead, he breathes in Harry’s fresh scent, feeling a satisfaction when he realises the sweet smell comes from his own shampoo.  

“D’you remember when we did this back home?” Harry pipes up after a few minutes, bringing Louis dreamily back to the present. Both of them have their eyes closed, holding one another close, their breathing in sync. “In Holmes Chapel?”

“I thought you didn’t know about that,” Louis mumbles back, sounding a little embarrassed. They still have so much to catch up on, it seems.

“Mum told me.”

Louis becomes more alert at that remark, not removing his arm from around Harry but sitting up on his other elbow.

“I knew she saw something,” He mutters, “The look she gave me, Haz.” He shakes his head, smirking. It’s all so funny in hindsight. Wasn’t such a pleasant experience at the time, though.

Harry laughs pityingly, looking up over his shoulder at Louis.

“She was onto us before there was anythin’ to be onto.”

“I don’t know about that, Harry; invitin’ me to Holmes Chapel in the first place was pretty gay.” Louis muses, his words dripping with his signature humour.

“Agreeing to go was pretty gay too.” Harry counters, deadpan tone evaporating the moment he smiles.

Louis scowls a fraction before grinning back.

“I was so nervous about it.” He mumbles, chin resting against Harry’s upper arm.

“Is that why you were playing hard to get?” Harry asks, eyebrow cocked in question.

“Oi, you bugger. Was not.” Louis defends, wriggling a little in a way of shoving Harry playfully.

“You practically ran out the door the next mornin’, Lou.”

“Yeah, well. Had to be sure you liked me, didn’t I?” Louis admits, lying back down so that his forehead presses against Harry’s back.

“I thought I was being pretty obvious, actually.”

“In hindsight, you were all over me, yeah.” Louis agrees confidently.

“ _Hey,_ ” Harry shuffles backward, the gesture actually comforting more than anything else.

They laugh in unison, the sound fading away with happy sighs.

“Reckon there’s always been _somethin’_ ,” Louis says then, softer and more tenderly. He’s thinking back to what Harry said before, about Anne picking up on something that wasn’t even there yet. He feels almost vulnerable just saying it. “Y’know, even when nothin’ had actually _happened_ … we weren’t very subtle.”

Harry turns his head to Louis, pulling a face that’s a mixture of guilt and amusement. “You think they’re all gonna say ‘I told you so’?”

Louis laughs self deprecatingly. “Quite possibly, yeah.”

He sighs, closing his eyes and hugging Harry closer. In the silence, Harry softly holds Louis’ hand in both of his, fiddling absentmindedly with it. The cool feeling of Harry’s rings, coupled with his giant, warm hands is soothing to the touch.

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” Harry says finally, and it sounds so much like sixteen-year-old Harry that it takes Louis by surprise, “If… you know… if we’re not ready. We can just…”

“ _Haz_ ,” Louis says, his voice empathetic, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” The hand that’s holding Harry’s squeezes tightly, the thumb rubbing gently against the back of his palm. “If you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you think… that I’m somehow anythin’ but over the fucking moon to call you my boyfriend, then…”

Harry pulls away then, turning abruptly around so that their faces are inches apart.

“No, Lou,” he promises quietly, his gaze unwavering.

“I’ve wanted everyone to know how much I love you for years.” Louis huffs, not angry with Harry in any way, just frustrated with the hand they’ve been dealt. He’s not just talking about their friends and family, though that’s what Harry initially meant. Tour is coming up and bringing Niall and Liam into this is a big step. He’s also talking about literally everyone – their friends, their family, their fans. Hell, even management, if they can muster up enough guts to tell them.

Harry’s eyes get a little watery but he manages to keep his emotions in check.

“Me too.”

“But if we want some time to ourselves… I think… I think that could be good.” Louis offers. The idea of having to hide the best thing in his life is unimaginable. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to share Harry with the world. Just not yet.

“Time for us.” Harry affirms, looking content.

 _Time for us._ They’ve spent so much of their lives away from one another, so many touches on stage forbidden, everything policed to the nth degree. They’re going to do this on their terms now. How it always should have been. Because they’ve waited so fucking long, and all Louis wants to do is be alone with Harry. Just drink him in, with touch, with looks, with words and everything in between. Reckons he’d be happy to stay in bed all week if Harry allowed it.

“We should probably tell our Mums though,” Louis adds thoughtfully, “Think mine’d kill me if she knew she wasn’t the first to find out.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Harry laughs, “They’re _thoroughly_ invested.”  

“Come to think of it, Lottie’s not gonna shut up about it when I tell her.”

“Oh?”

Louis rolls his eyes, though Harry can’t see the defeated attitude.

“Apparently I made the mistake of comin’ across a bit smitten texting you in front of her.” He admits unwillingly.

There’s a soft laugh, Harry’s whole body reverberating under Louis’ hold.  

“Smitten, hey?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“I miss Lottie,” Harry states sincerely, almost with a sadness, “How is she? I’d love to see her. And Jay, too. All the girls, really.”

Louis can picture his family’s reactions in his head. Jay will be, undoubtedly, both excited and exasperated. First will come the suffocating hug and then the, ‘ _took your bloody time'._  He can see that knowing twinkle in her eye already, the way she’ll look up at him from her dinner or the morning paper with that smug expression. Afterward it’ll be pretty hard to get her to stop asking endlessly after Harry – about how his health is, what he’s up to, when he’s coming to visit. Dan’ll be more reserved, congratulating Louis with an added spring in his step. He knows Lottie will hit him, hug him and then demand to know every excruciating detail (not the sex part though, she’ll dramatically fake gag at any mention of it). Fizzy, kind and wise beyond her years, will have something astounding to say that not even Louis will be able to predict. And Phoebe and Daisy will wear those beautiful smiles of theirs, the kinds that brighten Louis’ day no matter what.

“Oh, trust me - once they know about us, they will do _everythin_ ’ in their power to infiltrate your life. You’ll be sick of them soon enough.”

“Impossible.” Harry counters sincerely.

“You’re just sayin’ that.”

“M’not. I mean it, Lou. I adore your family.”

The way Harry speaks makes it hit home to Louis just how real all of this is. They didn’t just lose each other that night in Pittsburgh all those years ago. They lost a whole life together. A life with friends and family threaded in the tapestry of their relationship. Now they’ve found one another again, they get all those added parts back. Returning to Holmes Chapel as Harry’s boyfriend is going to be a completely different experience to last time, and there’s something indescribably exciting about that.

# …

The next few hours fall away like petals of a rose at the end of spring. Harry and Louis alternate between kissing and cuddling, muttering to each other between lips and against the sleep that beckons them. It’s bizarre, the effect the day has on them. Louis has never been the napping kind, but when he’s this relaxed, he can’t help but drift in and out of a peaceful slumber. He can let his guard down in a way he’s never been able to, just vulnerable and exposed to Harry in a way he only knew of in dreams.

He learns about each tattoo he never knew the story of. He traces them softly with his finger as Harry talks, smiling and feeling closer to the boy he loves with each passing minute. He tells Harry just how much he likes his long hair and Harry tells him his stubble is sexy. Louis can’t help but giggle bashfully at that remark. Sometimes the conversation goes a little deeper, to closeting and the pressure of fame overall. Other times, the conversation ceases altogether – replaced with lingering kisses or contented silence. Louis is sure he’s never appreciated silence more than when he’s alone with Harry, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, just knowing they’re okay. More than okay.

It’s not until Louis’ stomach gurgles loud and demanding do either of them realise where the time has gone. They’ve not eaten all day – too busy being in love, Louis guesses. The distraction of cuddling and kissing can only ward off hunger for so long, though, and so they reluctantly get out of bed in the hopes of making an early dinner.

“You’re telling me you don’t even own a spatula.”

Harry is standing looking utterly lost in Louis’ spotless kitchen. It’s the only part of Louis’ house that remains untouched all twelve months of the year. He has a pan in one hand and an adorably searching look on his face.

“I’m used to gettin’ take-away.” Louis shrugs, leaning his elbows back against the marble island. He’s sitting on the leather covered stool as Harry opens and closes drawer upon drawer in the hopes of finding a spatula.

Harry stares blankly.

“C’mon!” Louis retorts, “I’m only ‘ere couple months of the year, give me a break.”

“How am I meant to cook without the right utensils, Louis.” It’s a question, but Harry states it deadpan.

“Well, I don’t know, Harold,” Louis quips, pulling away from the bench and folding his arms to emphasise his point, “If you’re as good as you claim to be, you’d make do.”

Harry raises his eyebrows slowly, putting down the pan by the oven and approaching Louis leisurely.

“I’ll make do, alright.”

“Mm?” Louis arches a brow, registering Harry’s body language and knowing exactly where this is going. He parts his legs for Harry to walk into, looking up at him with a smirk. With Louis sitting on the high stool, they’re almost at eye level. Harry’s hands rest atop Louis’ thighs as he leans in and kisses him. Louis smiles into it, kissing Harry back with a slow determination.

There’s nothing quite like it, kissing Harry. Especially like this, in the wake of their confessions, completely resolved of the burden they both carried for so long. It’s so uncomplicated and so _nice._ Louis tugs Harry closer by his sweater (or rather, _Louis’,_ but who’s being technical?), parting his lips into the kiss, beckoning for Harry’s tongue. When he gets it, it’s warm and moist, completely intoxicating. They’ve shared a kiss dozens of times today alone, least of all when compared to their entire history. Somehow it feels just as new, just as exciting as that kiss all those years ago in their house after Leeds.   

Harry ends the kiss – somewhat reluctantly – frowning at Louis with a clenched jaw.

“No funny business in the kitchen,” He demands, gripping Louis’ legs in a way that counters his words, “It’s a safety hazard.”  

“Can’t handle the heat, then get out of the kitchen.” Louis shrugs, smirking at Harry with a casual confidence.

“Not my fault the heat is trying to seduce me.”

“Oh, very clever,” Louis says, eyebrows raised with a roll of his jaw, “I like that one.”

“You do?” Harry asks, turning away from Louis now and going over to the stove top. “Plenty more where it came from.” He wiggles his butt at Louis cheekily and Louis laughs loudly.

“I’ll help.” Louis decides, sliding off the stool and smoothing out his t-shirt. He fiddles with his hair a bit, it’s all fluffy and mussed from the shower.

“In that case, we may as well order take out,” Harry drawls, looking over his shoulder to Louis, “Because there’s _no way,_ ” he gesticulates lazily, like he always does, “I’m eating anything you helped cook.”

“That’s a bit bloody rude, Harold,” Louis looks aghast, “You haven’t even tried any of my cooking in years! I could have improved!”

“ _Could have,_ being the operative words here.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know all those episodes of ‘Great British Bake Off’ have been paying off.”

“We’re not baking a _cake_ , though, are we, Lou?”

Louis mulls that over, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

“Good point.” He decides after a beat. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

Harry grins wide, turning away and continuing to gather all the ingredients he needs for a simple pasta dish. It’s the only thing he can make with Louis’ limited resources.

“Louis?” Harry turns back to face his boyfriend.

“Yes, dear?” Louis pauses at the edge of the kitchen.

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.” Louis purses his lips, trying not to grin like a stupid teenager in love (never mind that, it’s exactly how he feels).

# …

“What’s on?” Harry asks, wandering in from the kitchen. He refused to let Louis help clean up the dishes, so Louis has been watching TV for the past fifteen minutes.

Louis doesn’t look up from the screen, acknowledging Harry’s presence on the couch beside him when he raises the remote in his hand and asks, “Hey, Harry,” spoken in faux innocent curiosity, “D’you think these two are gay for each other?”

Harry follows his line of vision, eyes landing on the TV program. It’s _Brokeback Mountain_. Louis flicked onto it by mistake. The opportunity to watch an LGBT+ classic seemed too good to pass up, especially today of all days, so Louis left it on regardless of how far into it, it is.

Harry just so happens to walk in on a very intense scene, Heath Ledger pushing Jake Gyllenhaal against a wall and kissing him passionately.

Louis looks across at Harry, managing to mask the fact that he isn’t being serious.

“Hmm,” Harry ponders, staring at the actors making out. He slowly meets Louis eyes, frowning intently, “Hard to tell. Could be in the subtext.”

“I reckon they’re just good friends.” Louis decides sarcastically, the men moaning against one another’s lips on the TV in a hilarious juxtaposition to his words.

“Yeah? Like you and me?” Harry asks coyly, eyebrow cocked.

“Yep.” Louis smirks through pursed lips.

With huge grins on their faces, they lean forward, meeting one another in the middle. Louis rests his hands at the nape of Harry’s neck, closing the space between their bodies in a gentle tug. It’s all lazy open-mouthed kissing, warm and relaxing, somehow. Harry pulls Louis up onto his lap, his hands resting at his hips and a satisfied sigh escaping him.

“I love you.” Harry mumbles into Louis’ mouth, smiling.

Louis pulls away, smirking at Harry and refraining from rolling his eyes. No matter how much attitude he might emit, the truth is that Louis can’t get enough of Harry telling him he loves him.

“Are we really gonna be _that_ couple?” he asks, tilting his head a little in question with his hands still around Harry’s neck, “D’you think we’ll still be doin’ this in a few weeks?”

“I hope so,” Harry says, smiling in that uneven way of his, “M’not gonna get sick of it.”

“Me, neither.”

“Love you.”

“Love _you._ ” Louis repeats, like it’s a competition and he’s adamant on winning.

The men beam silently at one another before Louis shakes his head.

“Okay, really. Enough.” He declares.  

“You’re right.” Harry frowns deeply, his mouth downturned in a very exaggerated version of seriousness.

“I love you, though.” Louis mutters, sliding off Harry’s lap and falling back against the couch cushions.

“I love you, too.” Harry says, a goofy smile plastered on his face. He lifts up Louis’ lower legs before sliding himself closer, placing them back down on his lap.

“D’you want me to change the channel?” Louis asks, lifting up his backside and digging around for the remote that he’s sure he’s been sitting on. He finds it shoved in the crease of the couch and huffs back against the cushions. “S’kinda sad.”

Harry watches the TV with a soulful expression, the lovers on the screen quarrelling now.

“Yeah, it is.” He agrees, turning to look at Louis, his hands resting atop his legs, “I don’t mind, though. It’s an important film.”

“Yeah, I sort of love it, even though I cry like a fuckin’ baby every time.”

Harry laughs, rubbing comfortingly along Louis’ leg. The gesture is not lost to Louis.

“You just wanna cuddle, don’t you?” he asks.

“ _Maybe_.”

“C’mon, then,” Louis says as he readjusts himself to make room for Harry besides him. The couch is extravagant in size and Louis has a knack of making himself smaller (he’s not willing to admit he’s naturally like that already). There’s plenty of room for the two of them to lie down together.

Harry eases onto his side, fitting himself into Louis’ open arms and sighing tiredly.

Somehow, with Harry in his arms, Louis feels more at home in his London house than he ever did in all the years he’s lived here.

“Haz?” Louis asks, his voice muffled and husky across the TV in his tiredness.

Harry makes a low mumble to acknowledge Louis, obviously too tired for much else. Louis can’t see his face, but judging by the grogginess of his tone and the way his hand is getting slow and dreary caressing Louis’ arm, he’s on the verge of falling asleep.

“D’you think we wasted all that time?” Louis asks, his tone wavering at the thought. His fingers lift at loose curls around Harry’s face and he lets them fall again. “Those years…”

It’s a heavy question to pose, especially considering the day of revelations they’ve had. Louis can let the small voice in the back of his head nag away, or he can learn from his mistakes and actually communicate with Harry. So he chose the latter, because even the smallest of fears should be voiced.

Hesitation preludes Harry’s response. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if Louis could actually see his expression to gauge his reaction. He fights off the urge to chew his nails, tuning into the voice of Jake Gyllenhaal telling his lover _I wish I knew how to quit you._

Harry breathes in a large intake of air and sighs it out.

“No, I don’t.” he finally says lowly and with a distinct surety. It eases Louis’ mind instantly, the way he speaks, just because there’s not a hint of insincerity there. He’s not just saying it to console Louis, he really believes it. “We weren’t…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “… ready.”

“Yeah.” Louis agrees.

It feels like every obstacle worked against them; as if some higher power plotted for their separation. Louis spent hours obsessing over if’s and but’s – endlessly rewriting history in his mind in the hopes that maybe somewhere out there, there was a version of himself and Harry who got the fairy tale ending. What if they’d met at The Script concert all those years ago, grown to love one another away from prying eyes and even more persistent managers? What if they had been stronger, what if they held on longer? What if, instead of letting everything and everyone come between them, they rose above it all in the name of love? _What if._

Louis knows now, though – holding Harry and feeling the happiest he has in years – that he can put those fixations to rest.

They found each other again, that’s all that counts. And in the end, really, he always knew they would.  

“But we are now?” he perks up, though he knows the answer already.

“ _So_ ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POP THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLES THE LADS DID THE DO!!!!
> 
> But seriously, I apologise for the smut, it’s my first time ever writing it and I am too much of a lesbian to really understand the male anatomy so… there's that. Hope it wasn't too bad! 
> 
> I hope all the dialogue didn't do your head in. I'm a big believer in showing the stuff lots of fanfics tend to skip, like the all important actual Talk™ about their feelings that doesn't rush into sex after two minutes. Not that, that isn't fun to read, but I do like to keep it realistic. 
> 
> As for the sources list, well... don’t you love closeting!? Unfortunately I haven’t a single source for anything this chapter. But you can assume most of it has happened because Harry and Louis are madly in love ;) 
> 
> Lastly, it might've occurred to you that this chapter has a certain finality about it and that's because if you remember there's a part one and two to this fic and we've reached the end of part one! What an accomplishment! I honestly cannot believe I've come this far, thank you to everyone who's stuck around for a lousy WIP from a new-time fandom writer. You guys are stellar. 
> 
> More info about my fic and the next update can be found on my blog (harryrainbows.tumblr.com).


	9. Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the second part begins! Enjoy :)

**P A R T  T W O : A F T E R**

_‘If you like causing trouble up in hotel rooms, and if you like having secret little rendezvous, if you like to do the things you know that we shouldn’t do, then baby I’m perfect, baby I’m perfect for you.’_

“Where are my pants?” Harry asks frantically, grabbing at the duvet and throwing it aside in his panicked search.

Louis groans tiredly in response, rolling onto his stomach the moment the blankets are pulled off him. If Harry wasn’t as stressed as he is, he’d be jumping back in bed and kissing Louis up and down his back, devouring every naked inch. But as it were, the pair of them are absurdly late for the airport and there’s no time for morning sex.

“Louis!” Harry yells assertively, standing stark naked before his sleeping boyfriend. He doesn’t even have time to check his phone to confirm just how much time they’ve wasted already. “ _My underpants!_ ”

“Ya pants?” Louis repeats, pulling himself up onto his elbows and squinting sleepily up at Harry. His hair is sticking up and even in the darkness of the shuttered room Harry can admire all his early morning beauty. For one second, that is; and then he’s on a rampage again, clothes flying everywhere.

“ _Yes,_ Louis! My pants!”

“I dunno, do I?” Louis grumbles, finally standing up from the bed in delayed reaction to Harry’s reminder about their flight. “They’re _your_ pants, not mine.”

Harry freezes then, mid squat, flicking the hair out of his vision just to glare up at Louis.

“M’glad we’ve established they’re my pants,” He enunciates in a low groggy tone, his patience wearing thin, “But if you recall, _you_ took them off me.”

Louis looks smug then, albeit a dazed kind.

“You bet, I did.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, eyes landing on Harry’s crotch.  

Harry grabs the nearest shirt from a pile of clothes (nothing is bloody decipherable in this dark) and throws it at Louis.

“Stop flirtin’ and get dressed!” he hollers – finding it pretty hard to resist Louis’ charm, a dimpled grin springing to his lips despite all attempts to suppress it.

“Okay, _okay!_ ” Louis laughs, looking pretty pleased with himself for making Harry crack a smile despite how wound up he is. He’s still holding the black shirt Harry threw at him and, taking the situation a lot more seriously now, he doesn’t bother searching for another. Instead, he just tugs it on, doing up the buttons haphazardly before diving into the piles of clothes for underwear and jeans.

Stepping out into the sunny tarmac of Cardiff Airport, both Harry and Louis are quick to realise the layers of clothes aren’t necessary. Neither of them are particularly used to the warmer temperatures of late May, having spent a majority of their time indoors (either at the studio or cuddling in bed together) in the month since they began dating. Sure, there were the few walks around Holmes Chapel and Doncaster during their family visits, but even then the weather was always a little rainy or breezy compared to the glorious sun shining down upon them now.

“ _Jesus_ ,” curses Louis, beginning to unzip his red Adidas jacket. He looks flushed, the weather in Wales considerably hotter than it was getting to Heathrow earlier this morning. A beam of sun is shining directly in his face and Harry wishes he had a camera in hand, so he could capture just how beautiful Louis looks. “I’m fuckin’ sweating in this!”

Harry chuckles, watching Louis squint into the sun like a vampire hisses at an undrawn window. It’s only when Louis peels off his jacket entirely, does Harry’s heart constrict in his chest.

“Lou.” He stares down a second, eyes wide at the sight before him; the black shirt embroidered with ‘Styles’ at the lapel in startling white – completely incriminating in every respect.  

“What’re ya doin?!” Louis squawks the second Harry’s hands are on him, pulling the red jacket back up his arms. When Harry doesn’t offer any explanation, Louis cranes his neck to get a better look at the shirt Harry is attempting to conceal. “Oh, fuck,” He physically slackens at the realisation of what he’s wearing, allowing Harry to pull at his Adidas shirt, poorly hiding the shirt beneath it, “Why’d your clothes have to be all over the damn floor!”

“Excuse me, Louis.” Harry blinks pointedly, “Pot callin’ the kettle black, don’t you think?” he glares, tugging a little more assertively at Louis’ jacket. It’s true, Harry has become a lot messier since sharing a bedroom with Louis in the past three and a half weeks, but he believes it’s only Louis’ bad influence that has brought it on. That, and the fact that being alone with Louis consumes all other daily tasks that he’d usually be doing. Including cleaning his room.

“Oh, shut up.” Louis says, flicking his fringe.

“‘Shut up’ isn’t a persuasive counter argument, Louis.” Harry says with a frown, fiddling with the zipper at the end of the jacket, trying to attach it.

Louis lets out a purposefully loud and exasperated sigh, shifting his weight onto one leg and resting his hands at his hips with attitude.

“I like you in my clothes,” Harry remarks softly, twisting one of the pearlescent buttons between his fingers absentmindedly, “Wish you could do it more often.”

Louis façade melts away, his expression changing into something imploring and loving. He looks on the verge of leaning in, as if maybe he has the guts to kiss Harry right here in front of dozens of strangers. He doesn’t of course, because that luxury just isn’t something they can afford. At least not right now.

The pair of them just stand there silently, sun glowing and people busily unloading their suitcases from the flight around them. There’s no fans, no paparazzi and no management. They’d succeeded in getting a flight into Cardiff alone without too much hassle, but they aren’t about to push their luck. Rehearsals start today and both Harry and Louis are adamant about keeping their relationship private for awhile, at least to everyone but family. They were the first to know of course, once Harry and Louis could find the time to visit and talk about it in person. Anne was over the moon, considering the last she spoke to her son about the topic of Louis, things had been anything but sunshine and rainbows. Gemma wasn’t surprised, though Harry wonders if anyone they tell really will be. She sat Louis down and sternly asked his intentions with her brother (all the while Harry had covered his red hot face in his hands). He figured he kind of deserved the embarrassment, really; Gemma was simply reaping her revenge after years of Harry’s overbearing brotherly protection against all her boyfriends.

“You just had to go and have your name embroidered on your shirt like a top wanker.” Louis mutters after a second, looking away from Harry and staring at the great expanse of the airport tarmac. But when Harry looks up from fixing the zipper at the tail of Louis’ jacket, he sees Louis’ expression isn’t angry like his tone suggests. He’s actually smirking, looking away from Harry in a bashful attempt at staying mad. It makes Harry grin triumphantly, before he pulls the zip all the way to Louis’ neck and stands back to admire his stealthy work.

Louis glowers at him, hands shoved into his pockets and looking adorably swamped in red. A plane takes off in the distance – Harry can hear the roar of the engine and the gust of wind it brings with it, Louis’ hair ruffling ever so slightly.

“M’gonna fuckin’ melt in this, Haz.” Louis states grumpily.  

“There’s no other option, Lou,” Harry says, frowning intently, “Unless we want everyone at rehearsals to know we’re dating.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, mulling over Harry’s words. The way he pretends to contemplate exposing their relationship to everyone just so he doesn’t have to experience mild discomfort for another few hours makes Harry roll his eyes. And then Louis’ shoulders slacken, expressing that he’s defeated. Harry throws his head back in laughter, pulling Louis close in a one-armed hug as they head toward the car that’s waiting for them.

The driver takes them first to the hotel, where they drop off their belongings. Of course, they aren’t going to be sharing a room, much to both of their ardent despair. This is just one of the many inconveniences they’ll have to put up with on tour as part of the deal they made to one another about keeping things secret for the time being. Nevertheless, Harry has become far too fond of waking up next to Louis and knows one of them will break eventually. As long as they’re subtle about it, though, he sees no reason why he can’t sneak into Louis’ room every now and again.

Afterward they’ll have to take separate cars to Cardiff Millennium Stadium, where they’ll be performing to a crowd of 30,000 in five days’ time when tour kicks off again. It’s very nerve wracking, to say the least. Rehearsals are designed to warm the boys up, remind them of life on the road and get them back into the high pressure routine. Yet this time around, it’s got so much more riding on it. This being the first leg of OTRA without Zayn, on the back of a two-month break, the public are more critical than they’ve ever been before. One Direction have to come back bigger than ever, or they might slip through the cracks of the industry to become forgotten nobodies. Louis has been doing a good job of swatting Harry’s hand away from online articles outlining their fears in big, bold headlines, or kissing him whenever he starts moaning about it; but there’s not much he can do about Harry’s mind always returning to it.

Harry almost forgot the hysteria of it all. During the two months put aside for writing the album, the fan interactions had been at a minimum; selfies in the grocery store or a quick wave from his vintage convertible back in the streets of L.A. With the European leg of the tour kicking off, it’s as if the dormant fan base has risen from hibernation – screaming and multiplying within seconds of spotting Harry from the back of the venue. And when they see Louis, too, walking a few feet behind as they exit rehearsals and climb into their car, the volume increases tenfold. Harry knows instantly that pictures will be all over the internet within the next half hour, of the two of them walking together, and he hopes it won’t be enough for management to send out a warning.

“A little excitable, aren’t they?” Louis mutters, folding his arms and staring out the tinted window. He isn’t bitter – Harry knows how deeply grateful Louis is for all their fans – but the reaction has pretty much killed any idea they might have had about getting away with travelling to and from places together from now on.

It’s a harsh contrast, to say the least. It feels a little like whiplash, if Harry is being honest. Tour hasn’t even started and Harry is already missing all the alone time he’s used to having with Louis. It’s not as if they haven’t had experience with this – monitoring their interactions and downplaying their affections. In fact, the past several weeks’ worth of working in the studio with Niall and Liam has made for very good practice. Back then, though, the day would end and they’d be back in their own little world – together and in love. Now, it’s hard to get time alone for longer than a few minutes, and the pair of them are growing increasingly impatient with it.  

Louis and Harry are silent after that, the muffled sound of yelling fans slowly fading in the distance. Harry’s hand searches for Louis’ in the space between them, encompassing it in his own with a tired sigh.

“We can do this.” Harry states calmly and slowly, half reassuring Louis, half promising himself. Louis turns away from the view, his eyes on Harry’s with an expression that shows how determined he is for that to be true.

Getting back into the fast paced momentum of tour is difficult enough, especially in the wake of Zayn’s departure. Both of them had thought long and hard about it, and knew the best option would be to focus on performing their best for their devoted fans. Regardless of if they tell Niall and Liam (or whoever else on tour they will inevitably come out to), the fans are what the concerts are for – giving back in the only way the band knows how. Rather than detracting from that, Harry and Louis decided keeping their relationship to themselves was the best option. It’s moments like these, though, that leave Harry feeling an ache in his chest. Feeling Louis’ hand squeeze his gently, Harry reminds himself that if past experiences are anything to go by, the wait will be worth it.

# …

There’s nothing quite like the roar of a crowd the moments before going on stage; the way time slows as if each tick of the clock is a thudding heartbeat, everyone’s breath hitching in their throats in the seconds leading up to that first glimpse of the band on stage. It never gets old – not to Harry, and he’s sure his band mates feel the same. The all-consuming adrenaline makes him feel as if he’s walking on air, floating entirely as he steps out to bright lights and hands reaching out from the edges of the stage.

Harry, Louis, Niall and Liam are mic’d up, coming together in a huddle behind the stage with their hands meeting in the middle. It’s the same as it is before every show, warming up their vocals and hyping each other up in all the right ways. One of them will take the reigns, giving the rest of the boys a pep talk before their hands fall away and it’s time to walk on stage. Harry thinks that if they skipped this part, the equilibrium of the whole show would be disrupted. Call it superstition, but he just can’t imagine performing without a team huddle first.

“Let’s knock ‘em dead.” Niall announces at the end, fist pumping before taking a hold of his guitar and preparing to walk out.

Harry chances a glance across to Louis, who looks back with a comforting expression. There’s not time for anything else before the screen pulls up and the fog machine cues their entrance. Harry inhales deeply before striding down the ramp alongside the other three boys, the opening instrumental to _Clouds_ blasting all around them.

Every fibre of his being is on high alert, the enthusiasm of the crowd spurring on the quickening of his heart and the buzz of it all. The audience is one endless sea of people cheering and jumping – everyone faceless in the blinding stage light glare – until Harry rushes to the stage corner in leaps and bounds, promising to remember each expression on everyone’s faces as he looks them in the eye, waving and blowing kisses. There’s a girl in the first row who’s crying, and he makes a note of it to come back to her and make sure she’s okay. Right now, though, he returns to centre stage just in time to belt the first lines, effectively opening the show.

He remembers now why he loves the breaks between tours so much. Because somehow, returning to the stage, performing after two months of being away from it, it’s almost like reliving it all again – like standing in front of the judges at the X Factor and timidly performing _Isn’t She Lovely_ , his whole future in the balance. It’s like that first tour in 2012, still just as new and exhilarating as if it were yesterday. There’s nothing like it, and all the worries that plagued Harry leading up to this point evaporate in the hot, trapped stadium air.

Later on in the show, when Harry’s done prancing around stage and dancing like a madman (to the screaming encouragement of everyone in the audience mind you), he stands to the side and watches Louis. He tries to make it as subtle as possible – water bottle at his lips, downing the refreshment in seconds before flicking his hair and pretending to fuss about in the corner of the stage. There’s something uniquely handsome about performance Louis that Harry can’t help but stare. It’s not just that he looks cute in his white _Black Sabbath_ t-shirt, or that he fills out his tight jeans impeccably well. It’s not even his husky vocals, though Harry could go on endlessly about how angelic he sounds. Everything about Louis draws Harry’s eyes, from his stylishly messy hair to his worn looking pair of Vans. He watches how Louis’ foot taps to the beat of the music, how he’ll go from stern and switched on, fingers at his earpiece and lips pursed, to arms outstretched with the mic and mouthing the lyrics to the audience closest with wide eyes and an infectious grin on his face.

Harry can’t help but think of last time they performed like this – how different the circumstances were as he’d keenly observed the love of his life on stage. Back then, Harry was filled with nothing but a hopeless longing, eying Louis for a split second before turning away in shame, utterly consumed with nostalgia. Sometimes he’d even try and glare Louis down, hoping the other boy would acknowledge him for once. It had been painful, overwhelmingly so. Yet as he eyes Louis now, the other boy sneaking a smirk his way, that distant ache of yesteryear has practically vanished completely.

Unlike those first nights performing without Zayn, there’s no uncomfortable space left between Harry and Niall as they sit during _Little Things_. No awkward shuffle is made across stage during the uncoordinated choreography of _What Makes You Beautiful_. Even the integration of Zayn’s solos is made seamless, tireless hours in rehearsal paying off as the rest of the boys perfect his numbers. And it feels, on some level, as if the crowd and band alike have forgotten there was ever a fifth member of One Direction.

# …

Harry’s hotel bed feels empty.

He’s lying with his legs outstretched and arms hugging the throw pillows, as if maybe taking up as much of the vacant space as possible will help ease his mind. It doesn’t work though, and after an hour trying to get to sleep resulting in nothing but a restless Harry, he decides to give up. He could account the sudden insomnia for the fact that they’ve been travelling and performing almost every day now for a week, the adrenaline of it all still keeping him on his toes well after the show is over for the night. And sure, that plays a part. The reality is, of course, that without Louis there to hold him, Harry finds it near impossible to simply drift off to sleep.

He doesn’t much feel up to watching TV and instead decides to catch up on his social media. Tour is incredibly time consuming and Harry has never been very good with prompt replies – so there’s a few messages in his inbox left unread. One from Kendall – received at some ungodly hour yesterday ( _thank you time zones_ ) – asks if she can take Harry up on his offer to hook her and Cara up with tickets to a show sometime in the next few months. It’s got to be early evening in L.A. and when Harry tells her that _of course I can, we’ll be in North America all of July, August and September. What city works for you?_ she responds pretty promptly.

> **Actually, caras treating me to a girl’s week in the uk sometime in october thought we could see u perform on home soil**

Harry smiles at the message, thinking back to the night at Rita’s 25th when Cara had been a drunken mess. By the sounds of it, everything worked out. For them _and_ for Harry and Louis. He contemplates his choice of emojis for his reply, tugging on his lower lip between his fingers mid-thought. He knows Louis would be mocking him for how seriously he takes it, if he were here. It’s down to his and Lottie’s influence that Harry’s been incorporating them more into his texting style as of late, though.

In the end he opts for a blushing smile and red heart throughout his next message:

> **How romantic, Kendall! I saw Cara the other day and I’m glad things worked out. Let me know what dates you’ll be in the UK and we can set something up!**

Almost immediately, Kendall’s speech bubble starts dotting.

> **Lol what??**

Harry frowns, wondering whether he used an emoji wrong. Ever since Harry and Louis told the Tomlinson’s about their relationship, Lottie has been making it her mission to have Harry fluent in the art of emoji use. It started by explaining why she chose the green frog for his contact name, which had left him thoroughly amused. Sometimes she just sends him different pictures of frogs with reference to a new meme – which seem to be ever-changing, far too quickly for Harry to actually be able to keep up with. It makes him feel a little like a clueless grandparent, except that Lottie somehow turns it into a fun game, so he’s always eager for what she’s got in store for him. In this case, he’s still pretty new to the whole emoji thing, and with Kendall’s response, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.  

> **Cara! Did she tell you? How’d it go?**

He waits, biting his lip a fraction and feeling completely confused.

> **… H tell me exactly what the hell you’re talking about rn**

Frantic now, Harry sits up a little straighter in his bed, pressing back against the pillows behind him.

> **Um… I don’t know! She was drunk. Something about her feelings?**

He waits, before quickly sending a saddened faced emoji. Kendall ignores it, replying swiftly:

> **WHEN THE FUCK WAS THIS**

The expression on his face must be priceless, eyes wide and mouth tugged into a cringe that describes perfectly how awkward he feels in the moment. He hesitates, wondering if he should just feign ignorance and brush the situation aside completely. When Kendall starts typing again, he knows if he doesn’t respond she’ll simply continue to yell in caps lock at him. So there’s no use beating around the bush. The cat’s out of the bag, whether he intended for it to be or not.

> **Ah. A month ago? A bit longer maybe? It was at Rita’s 25** **th** **birthday.**

Kendall’s ‘…’ stops the second he replies – only for a millisecond though – and then she’s typing again.

> **YOU ABSOLUTE USELESS MAN! THAT WAS LIKE 2 MONTHS AGO HOW ARE U ONLY JUST MENTIONING THIS!?**

Harry literally squirms under the sheets, feeling far too invested in this situation to keep a composed expression as he types. He knows she’s exaggerating – it’s not even the middle of June yet and Rita’s party was in the beginning of May – yet he can’t help feeling guilty for not mentioning the drunken encounter sooner. He’s been listening to Kendall mope over her supposedly unrequited love for Cara for a very fucking long time, so it’s no surprise that she’s telling him off for keeping her in the dark, even if it was by accident.

> **I’m sorry! I didn’t want to meddle! I thought she was going to confront you right away, that’s what she told me anyway.**

Kendall responds with a series of eye roll and skull emojis consecutively before texting:

> **brb sorting out my MESS of a love life**

Although Harry isn’t physically with her, he knows Kendall well enough to be able to sense the excitement in her tone, even if it _is_ masked behind her signature cynicism.

> **GOOD LUCK! X.**

There’s a soft knock on the door almost the same instant Harry’s message sends and in a sluggish shuffle, he gets out of bed to answer it. Still holding his phone, he sees a final text flash up on his lock screen:

> **SCREW U STYLES. love u**

He’s still grinning when he opens the door, the smile only widening when he sees Louis before it. He’s not surprised to see his boyfriend at this hour, considering Harry has been the culprit of late night visits himself. Sleeping apart is proving to be incredibly challenging for both of them, even after barely a week of tour; and when they feel confident enough, they’ve been sneaking in and out of one another’s hotel rooms as often as possible.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Louis explains, rubbing his eyes tiredly and yawning.

“Come in.” Harry responds, moving away from the door for Louis to walk inside. He does, albeit a sluggish, slow wander.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” asks Louis, a few feet from the bed already. Harry shuts the door softly behind him and turns to face Louis, shaking his head no.

“Kind of difficult gettin’ to sleep without you.” Harry shrugs, following Louis to the bed.

“Sleep with me, then.” Louis playfully responds, though it doesn’t have the same spark, diminished by fatigue. He crawls onto the bed and beneath the covers, looking completely at home there. Harry doesn’t waste time joining him, lifting the blankets and sidling up to Louis in the dark, drawn to his warmth and softness.

“G’night, Lou,” Harry mumbles, gently kissing Louis on the lips before turning onto his side. He feels immediately at ease with Louis’ arms around him, “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Harry.” Louis slurs back, his muffled tone telling Harry he’s already on the verge of unconsciousness. He nuzzles his head into Harry’s upper back before letting out a content sigh.

That night, Harry falls asleep in the time it takes for him to feel the rise and fall of Louis’ chest against his back, even before Louis’ hands find his to hold. And even though it’s late, _too_ late to really appreciate a full night’s slumber, it’s the best sleep he has all week.

# …

Belgium is beautiful, even from behind the tinted windows of the security adorned cars. Harry has never been too fond of the pop star entrance, often dreaming back to the time the boys managed to sneak around Rio in a bread van. That’s a luxury the biggest boy band in the world can’t really afford more than once, though – _despite having plenty of cash_ , Louis is quick to note – and so Harry just has to patiently ignore the sirens and flashing red lights that accompany their police escort.

Niall hollers for the boys’ attention – which can be pretty hard to garner minutes before a show, their minds always frazzled and elsewhere. Liam is repeatedly singing riffs, Louis has his face in his phone while he smokes (despite their vocal coach talking his ear off about how he shouldn’t do that right before performing), and Harry fiddles with his earpiece nervously, letting Lou put the final touches to his hair with the finesse of her expert fingers. Eventually, Niall gets them to focus and he snaps a selfie of the four of them, looking chuffed as he surely uploads it to his Instagram to proudly announce the start of their European leg.

The atmosphere of day concerts is always a little different to those at night. The crowd buzzes as it always does, every audience a little different but displaying the same universal spirit. The perk of today’s performance in Brussels is that Harry can actually see each of their faces bright and clear, and he interacts with everyone in the first few rows whenever he can, forming the peace sign with his fingers when he can tell someone is taking a photograph of him or giving the thumbs up to someone whose poster he likes.

Two songs have been added to the set list since last show, due to popular demand. After _Night Changes_ , instead of going straight into _Alive_ , the gritty rock instrumental of _No Control_ echoes throughout King Baudouin Stadium. The moment the crowd realises what song it is, they go absolutely ballistic. Harry does, too. He feels a surge of excitement rise up in his chest, like he could yell or laugh or leap even just to shake the exhilaration out. Louis has been going on and on about adding _No Control_ to the set list for the fans and now that they finally have, Harry can see how accomplished his boyfriend must feel. He’s wearing that modest smirk of his, the one that tries to hide just how fucking happy he is. Harry knows it well – that pursed lip smile – seeing it directed at him far too often in public.

It hits the chorus and Harry mimes along, his enthusiastic fervour only matched by the combined excitement of the audience before them. He can’t help the animalistic urge that takes over to the sound of the screaming fans and gritty electric guitar – dancing along the runway in giant strides and punching the air to the beat of the drums. Mostly, he’s too excited to contain his movements in anything but a sporadic series of jumps with his arms flailing – stopping only to crowd a laughing Niall and his guitar by singing the lyrics into his face before skipping up the stage steps.  

Passing Louis at the top platform, Harry catches his eye with a smirk as he turns his back to the audience, pulling up his shirt front. He pretends to wipe his face of sweat, but really he’s just flashing Louis in an attempt to crack his poker face. It works, for a fraction of a second, Louis ogling Harry’s clenched stomach muscles before snapping out of it, mouthing the words ‘you are so in trouble’ and then returning his attention to the audience. The reaction alone brings a smug grin to Harry’s face, one that he can’t shake even when he’s returned to his mic to sing his part.

Two songs later, _18_ plays. The reaction of the crowd is enough to bring a huge grin on Harry’s face – everyone whooping and clapping, before going instantly silent in awe. They’ve never performed this on tour before, and there’s those few seconds of nerves before Harry opens the song, his voice somehow not showing any sign of the way his heart is racing; singing smooth and low.

> _I got a heart and I’ve got a soul,_
> 
> _Believe me I can use them both_

Harry is convinced this is his best performance of the song to date – better than on the album, even – as he eyes Louis; each lyric feeling uniquely a part of their epic love story. He doesn’t much care for how obvious he might seem or that fans are recording his every move. Because with Louis standing beside him, singing the lyrics that always seemed so beautiful yet so unattainable just a year ago, Harry feels completely overcome with joy. Louis is just as smitten – pulling at his mic stand and turning to sing in Harry’s direction whenever he thinks he can get away with it. It’s not the first time either of them have serenaded the other, but it feels exciting this time – rather than an outlet for an unrequited yearning. Harry’s chest fills with a bubbling warmth whenever Louis’ eyes fall on him, knowing every word is sung straight from the heart, for him alone.

> _All I can do is say that these arms are made for holding you,_
> 
> _I wanna love like you made me feel,_
> 
> _When we were eighteen_

Lyrics have never rang more true to Harry in a performance than right now, and he wonders if the fans realise just how monumental it is for him to be able to stand in front of them and love Louis. How fitting it is, he thinks to himself, that the first time they perform this love song is at a point in Harry’s life where he has never felt more loved.  

It takes everything within him to remain composed when Louis reaches his solo. They’re are standing less than a meter away from one another, their mics synced to the buds in their ears, each voice as clear as the sunny day in front of them. Louis’ voice is hoarse and high pitched in a way only he can make perfect. Harry mouths the lyrics along with him, his frown digging into his brows in an attempt to remain grounded as he stares out at the sea of people.   

> _I have loved you since we were eighteen_
> 
> _Long before we both thought the same thing_
> 
> _To be loved and to be in love_

Harry falls in love with Louis all over again just hearing him sing _18_ , he’s sure of it – and he can’t wait for a moment alone to tell him.  

# …

When Harry walks into Louis’ dressing room, he’s on the phone. Louis’ expression brightens instantly, smiling at Harry as he continues to listen intently to the person on the other line. Harry doesn’t say anything, just helps himself to Louis’ half drunk tea before putting his phone down on the coffee table.

After a few silent seconds, Harry’s curiosity gets the best of him and he cranes his neck to see the caller I.D. Louis responds with a smirk, holding the phone away from his ear at an angle that shows Harry that he’s talking to Jay. Harry nods knowingly, slow, and mimes, _tell her I say hi_ which can be sort of difficult to lip read, because Louis’ expression turns analytical as he tries to figure out what message he’s meant to pass on.

“What– no, _Mum_ , I’m listenin’!” Louis says suddenly, straightening up, his eyes watching the ceiling as Jay continues to talk. “Yes, Ernest almost walked the other day, s’very excitin’.” He looks over with a smile at Harry, who perks up at the mention of Louis’ youngest brother.

Harry finally met Louis’ youngest siblings, Ernest and Doris, for the first time a few weeks back. It was basically Harry’s only wish once Louis’ family knew about their relationship – so much so that he wouldn’t shut up about it for days leading up to the trip to Doncaster. He knew from the minute he saw them that he was a goner – confessing Louis to be a close second on his list of favourite people. That just made Louis laugh, watching Harry playfully interact with the twins with that fond, soft smile of his. Every time Lottie or Fizzy sends them updates about them, especially if it's photos, Harry turns into a baby-obsessed mess. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, though.

Louis makes sounds of agreement to something Jay says before hastily interrupting, “Mum – Harry’s just walked in.”

Harry holds out his hand expectantly, knowing exactly what’s about to follow by announcing his presence to Jay. The instinct developed pretty soon after he and Louis first told Jay about their relationship, every mother and son update ending in an explicit request to speak to Harry. Sometimes she just calls for Harry altogether – Louis’ face turning from a smile to a scowl when he picks up and has to hand the phone directly to his boyfriend. His bitter jealousy just makes Harry laugh, because he knows that it’s all for the dramatics. When Harry really gets to talking to Jay, Louis looks far too in love with him to really be mad.

In almost the same instant, Louis sighs and says, “She wants to say hi.”

Harry simply responds by beckoning for the phone, a serious frown making him appear somewhat demanding. Louis tries to suppress the smirk at his lips, failing almost completely before passing over the phone.

“Don’t let her chat your ear off, ‘cos she will if you give her the chance.”

“I’d never say no to Jay.” Harry says with a slow shake of his head and tone completely deadpan.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Louis remarks lightly, faux concern written all over his face. When Harry scrunches his nose up in embarrassment, Louis’ façade falls away and a breathy laugh escapes him, “Go on, then.” He mumbles, looking thoroughly smitten.

It’s approximately twenty minutes later when Harry hangs up the phone. With a content sigh, he leans back against the couch beside Louis and sits in silence.

“Niall wanted to talk about golf in excruciating detail.” He says with a downturned smirk, looking across at Louis. Over the course of the past two and a half weeks, both Harry and Louis are discovering just how difficult it is to avoid the company of their fellow band mates. Even with the private luxury of individual dressing rooms (something they didn’t have the last several tours), old habits die hard – that and the fact that Liam and Niall have no sense of personal space. There’s been far too many times that Harry has been followed into Louis’ dressing room by a completely oblivious Liam who just wants to play FIFA and kick back with his mates. Snogging has to be postponed in those instances, unfortunately.  

Aside from the coddling from their band mates, Harry and Louis are finding that individual dressing rooms are both a blessing and a curse. Blessing, because there’s less of a chance being caught doing something that isn’t strictly platonic – and a curse – because there’s no excuse to be made in being spotted in and out of each other’s rooms on multiple occasions. Had they been sharing, Harry would be able to make up excuse after excuse about leaving his phone behind or needing to change shirts – anything really – to spend time alone with Louis. Now though, he feels nervous just walking down the hall past the ‘Mr. Styles’ labelled door and heading for Louis’. There’s been at least two times that he’s had to continue past Louis’ room and into the cafeteria, stand around like a fool before thanking the catering team for nothing and walking back out again simply because Liam had passed him in the hall.

Louis is just as bad at lying – bumping into Lou or Josh backstage and ending up somewhere completely different. He texts Harry about it, which is always kind of endearing, and then he’s finally in his dressing room the moment he can make a getaway.  

Louis lets out a laugh, head tilting back before asking with a smirk, “How’d you escape this time?”

“Told him I was going to do some laundry.”

“Laundry,” Louis snorts, catching on immediately to Harry’s _Friends_ reference, “S’that my new nickname?” he adds, in a woefully thick American accent. The whole sneaking around thing is made a lot more amusing when watching reruns of the 90’s sitcom together, and they’ve been joking about the similarities between themselves and Monica and Chandler for the past week straight. Sure, when Harry or Louis almost make a monumental slip up, there’s no canned laughing track to lift the mood – but it’s fun to make light of it, when they can.

Harry smiles goofily then, playing along as he leans closer and quotes, “You know your nickname, _Mister Big_ …” he winks, but the gesture is almost lost in the instant that Louis plants a kiss on his lips. He’s still smiling against the contact, eyes flittering shut and hands finding Louis’ lower back. Softly, Harry’s lips mould from a smile to fit Louis’ rhythm, the pair of them succinctly shifting their bodies closer together on the couch.

In moments like these, it’s hard for Harry to imagine spending time apart from Louis the rest of the day. With Louis tugging gently at his hair, tongue hot and teasing at his mouth, Harry wishes that time would just stand still for them. The fact that in less than an hour they’ll have to leave the comfortable reclusiveness of Louis’ dressing room and pretend they aren’t what they are – is excruciating.    

“Should probably go back out there…” Harry mumbles reluctantly, ending the kiss with a sigh.

“What’s the time?”

Harry checks his watch before answering, “Half past,” he watches Louis with a defeated expression. Seeing him up close like this, intimate in the wake of the kiss, is such a beautiful sight to behold. Harry can feel Louis’ breath at his skin, sees the flutter of his long eyelashes and the speckles of green in his wide blue eyes. “Sound check is in an hour,” he adds, though it’s spoken in a slow, distracted murmur. Louis has that effect, after all. “Lou will be wanting to attack my hair with that mousse again.”

“Like your hair just as it is,” Louis muses, his hand gently holding one of the curl’s at the end of Harry’s hair. He pauses, eyes glazing a second and then he shifts his weight, both hands running through Harry’s locks. “I like it when you get up in the mornin’ and it’s all over the place,” he says with a cheeky smile, clearly enjoying the effect he has on Harry just by playing with his hair.

“Yeah?” Harry murmurs, quiet and a little spaced out. The contact is so soothing, Louis’ hands always so gentle, that Harry feels as if he could fall asleep if he keeps doing it.

“Like your hair _any_ way,” Louis goes on to say, his head tilted to the side in consideration of Harry’s hair, “You could probably shave it all off ‘n’ I’d still find you cute.”

“I’ll make note of that,” Harry says with a small smile, eyebrows quirking up with amusement, “I’ll have to see what Lou has to say about it first though,” he adds playfully, his expression moulding into a subtle frown, “Might not be my best fashion choice… but definitely the boldest.”

“I don’t know about that. Have you seen yourself in that tropical shirt and them white Mum jeans?”

“Mum jeans!” Harry repeats, expression completely indignant, though his wide smile says otherwise. He knows exactly the outfit Louis is talking about, picturing the colourful Hawaiian shirt and skinny jeans in his head instantly. “They were women’s Low Rise Skinny Jeans, actually, Louis.”

“Oh, whatever. Same thing.”

“If you’re going to try insult me, you should at least do it right.”

“S’not an _insult!_ ” Louis quips, looking completely offended by the accusation Harry is making. “I happen to think you look great in Mum jeans. Irresistible, even.”

Harry lets out a rumbling laugh at the seriousness of Louis’ expression, his whole body shaking slightly and eyes shutting with a squint. When he opens them again, Louis is smiling back at him.

“Did you have to tuck?” Louis asks, licking his lips and looking at Harry with the subtlest display of seduction possible. The question catches Harry off guard and he laughs despite himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No comment.” He says, his expression entirely neutral.

“You tucked, didn’t you!” Louis says, eyes wide on the verge of laughing, “Just admit it, no way you could fit into them otherwise.”

“Fuck off.” Harry says in a small voice, face going pink. It’s not so much the insinuation of the question that’s embarrassing, but the way Louis is teasing him about it.

“ _C’mon_ , tell me your fashion secrets.” Louis prompts in a whiny yet incredibly charming voice, leaning close with eyes burning into the side of Harry’s head.

“I wore those trousers before we started datin’,” Harry observes, frowning intently. He’s choosing to completely ignore Louis’ pestering. He blinks slowly, mouth twitching into a smile with what he’s about to say, “Louis, are you trying to tell me you were pervin’ on my junk when we weren’t even friends? Because that’s extremely inappropriate and, quite frankly, unprofessional.”

“Don’t go and deflect!” Louis retorts, before folding his arms with a huff, “And I wasn’t _perving_ , just… looking.”

Harry smirks, surging sideways to leave a kiss on Louis’ cheek before folding his own arms and looking off, feigning innocence. After a second, he sneakily peers over at Louis from the corner of his eyes, the other boy’s gaze already on him. They beam giddily at each other before simultaneously bursting into laughter.

“You’re right, though,” Louis states out of nowhere, rising to his feet reluctantly, “I bet wardrobe are sweatin’ about co-ordinatin’ all our bloody outfits.”

“We need to look eye-catching,” Harry recites, almost word for word what the wardrobe department reminds them of constantly before shows. He’s laughing at his own joke before he can even finish what he’s saying, the rest of it coming out in breathy giggle, “Yet embody our unique personal styles,” he composes himself as best as he can before he concludes, “Obviously.”

Louis snorts, wandering in front of the adjacent mirror, looking at himself as he fiddles about with the tufts of hair sticking in a way he doesn’t like. Harry is quite fond of those stray strands himself – he tells Louis as much – but he just rolls his eyes and says Harry’s fond of everything about him, so it’s hardly saying much. He’s right, of course – about the fond part as Harry thinks Louis just gets more handsome with each passing day.   

“M’gonna wear a shirt I bought recently, actually.” Louis remarks conversationally.

“What one?”

“You haven’t seen it.” He turns around to face Harry, “S’a bit of a political statement.” He scrunches his nose a fraction with a kind of nervousness. It reminds Harry oddly of a kitten.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just raises eyebrows in curiosity.

“I mean, s’mostly just a sick shirt, really.” Louis shrugs, “Very… _me_. You’ll see.”

# …

Louis’ t-shirt makes its great debut that evening at the Gothenburg concert, and is truly a sensational hit. If social media is anything to go by, it’s clear the fans understand the gravitas of the message behind the slogan. ‘The Future Is Now’, in garish white dripping font that reminds Harry of those _Goosebumps_ books from when they were kids. Everything about the t-shirt screams Louis, more than the fans will ever know, and Harry can’t keep the smile at bay whenever he looks across at him during the show.

The following show, Louis wears it again, though this time the significance is amplified to a monumental degree.

“The audience is very colourful tonight,” Harry says, mic held lazily close to his lips. The afternoon light glows at the corners of the open roof stadium, creating a soft ambiance even in the charged energy of the crowd. “And for a lot of you I know why,” he pauses, staring out at the sea of rainbow flags and posters. It makes his heart swell in his chest and moves him almost as much as the actual decree of universal marriage equality passed in America just that morning. He frowns deeply in concentration, calculating every word flitting through his mind. There’s so much he wants to say, the sentiment he wants to express freely yet knowing he can’t quite do that. His throat is dry with emotion and he lets his gaze find Louis from across the stage. He’s just standing to the side of the stage, interacting with Liam and confidently embodying everything that his shirt is shouting to the world. He’s amazing. “… and that’s great.” He finishes, letting the cheer of the crowd reassure him of every woe in his mind. He looks into the eyes of one fan in the front row, his determined gaze locked onto their tearful joy. He hopes it’s enough, to all of those feeling vulnerable or unsure about their identities. He wishes he could stand before them and shout with pride; but for now, this will have to be enough.

# …

“You were bein’ so obvious.” Harry says with a smug expression, unhooking his earpiece and letting it hang down his chest. They’ve got about ten minutes alone time before their allocated toilet break in the middle of the show starts to look a little fishy.

“Me?” Louis questions indignantly. “ _Obvious?_ ” he repeats, folding his arms and shifting his weight from one leg to another absentmindedly, “I wasn’t the one staring like a lovesick puppy through the entire of _Li’ Things_.”

Harry stops chewing his gum at that remark, mouth gaping and eyes wide in betrayal.

“Lovesick puppy!?” he says, placing his hands at his hips to emphasise the dramatics of it all. “You’ve got tickets on yourself!”

“A blind man could see you’re gone for me.” Louis retorts, smirking confidently, cheeks haughty in the way his lips purse.

Harry rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. After all, Louis is right.

“Did you see that girl with the Larry Stylinson sign, though?” he says instead, changing the subject completely as he unscrews a water bottle and takes a large gulp.

“In the front row?”

“‘If God hated Gays, how come Louis and Harry look cute together?’” Harry puts the half-finished water atop one of the black instrument cases stacked in the corner, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand. When he turns back to Louis, he folds his arms across his chest.

“She’s got a point.”

A laugh escapes Harry and he throws his head forward to mess up his hair before combing it out of his face.

“Reckon the Church’d listen to that argument?” he asks between chews of his gum, eyebrow quirked.

“S’what got the marriage bill to pass, I reckon.” Louis counters, gesturing nonchalantly with a seemingly serious expression. Of course, Harry knows the other boy like the back of his hand, every minute gesture and delicate mannerism ingrained in his mind like the lines of his favourite book or the fresh morning air when he’s home. He just knows Louis, and can tell he’s on the verge of laughing, even when his face is stern. “They saw us and thought: _now_ I see what everyone is talkin’ about with these gays.”

Harry scrunches his eyes shut, suppressing the laughter rising in his chest and instead nodding slowly in agreement.

“Yes. That’s _exactly_ what happened.” He agrees.

“I wish I could keep some of the signs, though,” Louis remarks in a vulnerable tone, “Take them home, put them on my wall. Y’know,” he shrugs, trying to mask just how moved by the support he is, “For a bad day.”

“Me, too.” Harry agrees in his warm, soothing voice, “Seeing them every night on stage is the next best thing, though.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” But he still looks unsettled, so Harry finds his hand and squeezes it gently in reassurance. Louis melts at the contact, not even checking to see if anyone might catch them before he pulls Harry into a warm embrace. Hugs from Louis are like no other; they’re soft and yielding, and make Harry feel safe and loved. Louis has to get onto his tiptoes to reach Harry properly, his chin resting in the crook of his neck and arms wrapped right around. Harry engulfs Louis in stature and his eyes close into it for a few heartbeats before they let go.

“You keep doin’ that… _thing_ during _No Control_.” Louis says when they’re no longer touching. His demeanour has relaxed somewhat and he stands casually leaning against one of the equipment boxes. “The whole…” he gestures vaguely, imitating Harry’s signature air punches and body groping – though he does a fairly poor job of it, which makes Harry laugh before Louis can even finish what he’s trying to say. He sighs, apparently giving up, “I can’t think straight.”

“You’re gay, so…” Harry begins, shrugging with a cocky smirk. “I imagine you can’t ever really ‘think straight’.”

“Cheeky…” Louis mutters, glancing behind Harry a fraction before moving closer. He bites down on his lower lip lightly, hands finding Harry’s waist, pulling him forward. The section behind the stage that they’re standing in is fairly dark and secluded; situated right behind the temporary structure built for the backup band and completely invisible to the thousands of fans on the other side. It’s adorned with black drapes covering the scaffolding, shutting out whatever glow comes from the stadium lights outside and plastic boxes filled with equipment surround them at every turn. For all intents and purposes though, right now, it may as well be a palace.

The first few seconds of Louis’ kiss is like an American film, where the teenaged lovers sneak behind the bleachers just so they can steal another taste of each other’s lips. In a way, this is a lot like that, Harry admits. Sure, they’re a little older, a little wiser – and the stakes of being caught are far, _far_ higher. But deep down, when you strip away all the pretence and the pressure, that’s all they are. Just two kids in love.

Louis smells dizzyingly of the cigarette he smoked right before show time, and although the pair of them are a little sweaty and hot, their chests press together instinctively. Harry likes the way Louis’ scruff tickles his chin and the way Louis’ hand slides up his chest and into his hair.

They stand there like that, the kiss turning from slow and sweet to hot and heavy within minutes. The cheering from the crowd remains incessant, but it feels more like encouragement than a reminder that they need to go back out there. So Harry grips Louis’ waist tighter, giving in when Louis gently pushes him back against the wall. Their hands roam each other’s bodies in a quickening pace, somehow the fact that they could be caught at any second adds fuel behind the passion of the kiss. Harry almost thinks that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if someone discovered them here. That maybe being be found in such a compromising position might actually work in their favour – then they wouldn’t have to explain in awkward jolted sentences; just let their intimacy speak for itself. It’s nothing more than a passing thought, however; an idle fantasy that dissolves at his tongue in Louis’ mouth, their secret lighting Harry up from the inside out with every touch.

Harry _really_ likes Louis’ ‘The Future Is Now’ t-shirt. He likes it so much that he’d just about rip it off him in this moment if he felt he could get away with it. He doesn’t, though – not here – because even the dark, secluded corner, Harry isn’t fooled completely that they’re totally alone. Instead, he opts for fisting the fabric tight in his hands, bringing Louis as close to him as physically possible.

Louis moves away from the kiss; at first he presses his lips flush against Harry’s cheek, and then at the edge of his jaw and, before Harry can really process it, Louis is sending tingles up his spine with the way his mouth is hot against his neck. On instinct, Harry tilts his head to the side, allowing better access and feeling his hair stand on end when Louis begins sucking at his skin.

“Wait a minute,” Harry mumbles, his voice low and grumbling. His eyes flutter open in an embarrassingly delayed reaction, and he stares down at Louis with a frown. “ _Hey_ ,” he says, his fingers ghosting across the spot where Louis has begun sucking a hickey, feeling sensitive at his own touch already. “We’ve got to go back out there in a minute!” he complains, knowing without having to look in a mirror that Louis’ dirty work is evidence enough to blow their entire cover instantly.

“Your hair hides it,” Louis shrugs, looking suddenly very mischievous. He moves Harry’s hair over his shoulder, adjusting it to hide the reddened spot and looking inwardly proud.

“Such a _menace_ …” Harry responds, shaking his head with a grin, pulling Louis back into a kiss before he can think of anything snarky to reply.

The kiss turns passionate again almost instantly, Harry’s hands drifting dangerously low on Louis’ behind while the other boy presses his hips up against him. Both of them are so completely lost in it, Harry’s mind swimming with all the images of what he wishes he could do to Louis right here, that it takes a second for the booming voices to register.

“Where’s Louis gone?” the voice, unmistakably that of Niall, echoes from the stage.

“Where’s _Harry?_ ” asks the second voice, Liam. Clearly the pair of them have stalled in Harry and Louis’ absence for as long as they can, the ten minutes having fallen away the moment Louis kissed him.

“Shit.” Harry curses against Louis’ lips, and Louis lets out a breathy laugh, “You go first, I’ll catch up.”

Louis responds with a whine of protest, reluctantly moving away from Harry.

“See ya out there,” he says, voice flirtatious and expression showing just how badly he _really_ doesn’t want to walk away from this situation. Harry just laughs in response, hand raised in a farewell wave, thinking about how cute Louis is when he jogs off back on stage. Harry sits down on one of the equipment cases, waiting a few seconds before heading to the stage from the opposite end that Louis did. That should be enough to keep the suspicions at bay.

“Sorry lads, just havin’ a wee,” Louis’ voice sounds, loud in the sound system of the stadium. Harry smiles to himself from backstage, and takes it as his cue to re-join the boys.

“There’s Harry!” Liam says with elation the moment Harry reappears. Harry just frowns intently back at him, fiddling with his earpiece before it’s back in his ear, “Took your time,” he adds, mirroring Harry’s expression when frown lines appear at his forehead, lips pouted. It’s quite honestly a hilarious image – the critical look on Liam’s face made comical by the novelty bejewelled and oversized sunglasses he’s wearing, coupled with the bright yellow costume.

Harry stares at him blankly, processing what on earth happened on stage while he and Louis were in their only little world.

“I won’t be having any judgement from _you_ ,” Harry begins, very deliberately looking Liam up and down before continuing in a deadpan tone, “A _literal_ banana, apparently.”

Liam’s furrowed brows smooth instantly, crinkles at the side of his eyes and smile wide and infectious – a picture of absolute carefree joy in his fan gifted banana outfit and glamorous eyewear. There’s just something so sweet and pure about the way Liam laughs, Harry can’t help but follow suit.

Making his way across stage to his mic stand, Harry tries to keep his jaw tight, eyes glazed and focused on the task at hand. Seeing Louis fix his fringe repeatedly from the corner of his eye, he knows they’re both itching to get time alone again. It’s comforting at least, knowing how equally besotted they are by one another.

“Where’d you get the gum, Tommo?” Niall remarks casually, his fingers twiddling at the base of his guitar as he adjusts his headset. Thankfully the question wasn’t picked up by the mic, or else the inquisition would be witnessed by everyone in the audience.

Harry looks over at Niall and Louis, appearing like a casual observer yet all the while his hands cling to the mic stand as if his life depends on it. Louis stops chewing Harry’s gum the second he’s asked, jaw frozen mid bite. It’s completely laughable, the way Niall just waits expectantly and Liam, too, shifts his focus to the boys. Niall’s question is totally innocent, but catches Louis so off guard that he can’t even form a coherent response.

“Last one in the pack. Sorry, Nialler.” He finally says with a hint of a stutter, forcing a kind of smile before spitting the gum out and throwing it in the nearest bin. His eyes send lasers Harry’s way, and it takes a serious amount of self restraint on Harry’s part not to burst into embarrassing laughter.

# …

“Harry…” Louis begins in a soft voice, fingers trailing delicately up the side of Harry’s arm. He’s sitting on his lap, thighs bracketing Harry down on the couch in his dressing room. It’s just hours after they left the Olympiastadion stage for the final time, the European leg of their tour coming to a close. Louis bites his lower lip, nervously avoiding Harry’s wide curious eyes, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it, Lou?” Harry frowns attentively, letting his hands splay across Louis’ thighs, stroking comfortingly up and down.

“I…” Louis struggles with it, finally meeting Harry’s eyes before continuing, “I think I might… fancy you a bit…”

Harry’s eyes close, shoulders slackening with relief and he lets out a breathy laugh as he shakes his head. When he opens his eyes again, it’s accompanied with a furrowed brow, swallowing hard as he grips Louis’ legs.

“You do?” he asks in as serious a tone he can manage.

“Yeah.”

Harry nods sternly, looking down in faux contemplation.

“I fancy _you_ a lot, actually.” He says finally, looking deeply into Louis’ eyes.

“Whoa. Really?”

“Uhuh.” Harry struggles to hold back the grin on his face, darkening his expression to match Louis’.

“Maybe we should date.” Louis suggests, his hand resting at the nape of Harry’s neck.

“Maybe.” Harry responds cryptically, grinning a close-lipped smile. Louis smirks back, leaning in and in the process putting pressure ever so slightly against Harry’s crotch. The gesture makes the triumphant smirk on Harry’s face falter and neither hesitate before closing the space between them with a kiss.

The door to Harry’s dressing room is locked, so there’s no need for the boys to hold back. With that in mind, Harry’s hands quickly bunch up Louis’ t-shirt, breaking the kiss only to pull it off him entirely. He tosses it aside before their lips rush together again, Louis gripping at Harry’s neck fervently. Harry responds to Louis’ enthusiasm by lifting him up by his thighs and laying him back down against the couch so that he’s entirely on top of Louis.

“Do you think we could–” Louis begins, but Harry knows exactly where he’s going with it.

“Definitely.” He answers, and Louis’ hand brings Harry’s lips back against his in a rush, teeth almost clashing, noses dodging one another and his thighs tightening around Harry’s hips. They’ve got time on their hands that they don’t usually have – most of the crew are packing up and preparing for a two week break before things start up again in North America. Besides, they’ve always kind of wanted to do it in the dressing room.

In heated, languid movements, Louis grips Harry’s arse toward him, hungry for the physical contact of his body pressed up against his. Harry goes with Louis’ dominant guidance, releasing some of his weight down on the boy underneath him. The pressure he puts on Louis’ hardness elicits quickening breaths, and when he grinds his hips Louis inhales sharply, the kiss shaky before deepening again. Louis’ hands move up from his arse to under Harry’s shirt, slowly and determinedly gripping at his back while Harry’s tongue explores his mouth.

Harry is completely absorbed in the taste of Louis’ lips, until he hears the noise of the doorknob being turned. Both he and Louis freeze instantly, lips still locked and hands groping. When several seconds pass, and the door remains unopened, Harry thanks God that they’d gone to the trouble of locking it in the first place. But his heartbeat doesn’t resume its usual pace, because whoever is on the other side leaves a resonating knock to announce their presence.  

Both of their heads whip around to the door, as if by staring at it the situation will fix itself. It doesn’t, of course.

There’s muffled laughter and then, “Harry! Why’s ya door locked?”

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, looking back down at Louis, his hair falling in his face in the process.

“Niall, you little shit–” Louis cusses under his breath, still glaring at the door. Harry’s fingers are at his lips before he can conclude the sentence, quietly shushing him.  The pair listen closely – hearing not just one muffled voice – but two.

“Someone else is with him.” Harry concludes in a low voice, staring off blankly. Louis stays silent, craning his neck up hearing out for the second voice.

“… Liam,” Louis says with a wince, “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he lets his head fall back defeated against the couch cushion, puffing out his cheeks, “The bloody timing of these two. You’d think they have some kind of tracking device, for crying out loud.”

“C’mon, Harold! Let us in, we won’t bite!” Niall calls before his voice quietens to talk to Liam. It’s increasingly apparent just how clueless the pair on the other side of the door are to the havoc they’ve unleashed.  

“Get up,” Harry orders Louis, already moving to a seated position himself. “ _Get up!_ ” he repeats in a frantic whisper when Louis is slow on the uptake, frozen in fear. Louis finally registers the words, and haphazardly gets to his feet. “In there,” Harry says, hands gentle yet urgently guiding Louis into the bathroom. Louis goes willingly, looking just as petrified as Harry when the door closes on him.

Harry takes a second to inhale deeply – fixing his hair, wiping his mouth and doing whatever else he has to do before heading to the door and unlocking it. Niall and Liam look up from their casual conversation the moment the door opens, smiling at Harry with perfect obliviousness.

It’s not the first time Niall and Liam have imposed upon Harry’s personal space in his dressing room and he doubts it’ll be the last. Yet he’d been unrealistically optimistic that spending an hour eating cake and listening to the crew give impromptu speeches about the Europe leg ending would be enough to keep them at bay. Clearly, he was wrong.

“It was a good show, wasn’t it? Nice turn out.” Liam comments as the two of them enter Harry’s dressing room, totally oblivious to the flush in his cheeks and the way his arms are folded tight to his chest uncomfortably.

“Yeah, good way to end the Europe leg for sure.” Niall responds, having greeted Harry before falling back into easy conversation with his fellow bandmate.

“Oh, definitely.” Liam agrees, stopping and standing in the middle of the room. Harry shifts minutely across, standing a metre in front of the bathroom, attempting to block the way. Both look at Harry expectantly, and he nods vacantly in agreement.

“What was ya door locked for anyway?” Niall perks up, frowning with a kind of bemused smile at his lips. He has no fucking idea what he’s walked in on.

“Just… tired from the show. Thought I’d take a nap.” Harry lies, quickly raising his hand to his mouth and giving a wide, completely fake yawn, as if it’ll add authenticity to his story.

Niall simply laughs. “Grandpa.”

“What can I say, Niall?” Harry announces a little too loud, compensating wildly for the shake in his tone from nerves. He puts his hands awkwardly on his hips, a power stance that falls completely flat. “M’getting old, these bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“Have you seen Louis anywhere, Harry?” Liam asks suddenly, though there’s no hint of scepticism in his tone. Evidently, he has no interest in the banter between Harry and Niall – looking very much like a man on a mission.

“No!” Harry answers a little too quickly, and with far too much defensiveness. He frowns, eyes glowering. “No, I haven’t seen Louis. Why would I have seen him?” He’s talking incredibly fast for someone who's usually very slow and thoughtful when he speaks, and the behaviour change is not lost to either Niall or Liam. He’s just not good under pressure, never been able to think quick on his feet enough to lie smoothly. This would be a lot easier if Harry was in Louis’ positon, shirtless and silently hiding in the bathroom while Louis waxed lyrical about anything and everything to get the boys off their scent.

The awkward shift of tension in the room makes Niall’s casual expression turn to that of confusion, watching Harry with an affronted amusement. Liam, on the other hand, remains for the most part unfazed, though a little as if he’s got something to be sorry for.  

“Just wanted to borrow something from him.” He says with a frown, searching Harry’s expression for what he could possibly have said to offend him.

And then the worst possible thing happens.

It feels as if the whole thing is in slow motion – from the way Harry sees Niall’s eyes land on the couch behind him to the way his expression turns from absentminded interest into dawning realisation. Harry turns his head, following Niall’s gaze and hoping the dread festering in his gut is unfounded. Niall’s eyes are glued to the shirt abandoned on the couch – ‘The Future Is Now’ font glaringly and unmistakably the one Louis was seen wearing just an hour before. It all clicks – Harry can see it on Niall’s face; in the gaping mouth and wide eyes. There may as well be a light bulb going off above his bleached blond head.

“No way.” Niall states, low and half like he’s been slapped in the face, eyes finally tearing away from the couch to meet Harry’s wide, panicked ones.

“What?” Liam asks, looking between Niall and Harry – unaware of the unspoken revelation unfolding before his very eyes.

“Uh– Liam,” Harry quickly says, his voice booming in the small space. It cuts off whatever Niall was about to say, though he is still staring in stunned silence, so Harry’s sure whatever he would have said wouldn’t have made much sense. “Actually, now that you mention it, I think I saw Louis heading to the canteen.” He lies, his voice almost shaking with the heightened tension of the moment, “You should _really_ go look.”

“Oh, thanks, mate!” Liam says, apparently conditioned well enough to Harry’s intense stares by now not to question its current inappropriate usage. He doesn’t say anything else, glancing at Niall with a flicker of concern before walking out the door, leaving the other two in silence.

“ _Niall_ …” Harry begins warningly, brows furrowed and hands raising cautiously.

“Oh my God, Harry,” the Irish man interrupts, shaking his head back and forth in utter disbelief, “ _Oh my God_ ,” he repeats, hand finding his gaping mouth and covering it, as if that’ll defuse the shock of his discovery. But then he does something Harry doesn’t expect – he bursts into laughter.

“Niall?” Harry questions, affronted and completely perplexed. He’d been so sure Niall’s reaction would be bad – not because he didn’t have faith in his friend’s compassion or loyalty, but because of the very unfortunate circumstances of how he found out.

“You and Louis?!” Niall almost shouts, hand falling away and mouth pulled into a giant grin.

“Shh! _Shh!_ ” Harry hushes, surging toward Niall to grab his shoulders, “Niall, please.”

Niall can’t keep a straight face, whipping his head between the incriminating evidence on the couch and Harry, who’s gone completely pink in the cheeks from embarrassment.

“Where is he?” he laughs, his expression a very odd combination of aghast and amused.  

Harry doesn’t answer, letting go of Niall’s shoulders and standing awkwardly in contemplation. They stay in silence, Niall’s jovial expression unwavering, Harry’s eyes glassy with _God knows_ what – so much is going through his mind right now. He could lie. Tell Niall that he’s made a terrible mistake, a lapse in judgment, a wrong assumption, a faux pas–

His mind races to think of what he could possibly say to lie his way out of the current situation. _Louis’ shower broke, so he had to use mine and just so happened to leave his shirt on my couch_. Or maybe: _Louis and I were hanging out, just two laddy lads playing FIFA and he spilt beer on his shirt, so he took it off and now he’s changing in the bathroom_. Harry could even opt for something outlandishly dumb like saying the two of them were playing strip poker alone. Anything really to deny the fact that the two of them were about to have sex.

But all of those excuses are just as embarrassing as the next, and if he’s truthful, there’s something so fucking relieving in somebody else knowing about them. Especially with the way Niall grins wide and expectantly at him, as if nothing would make him happier in the world than for Harry and Louis to confirm their relationship.

Harry lets out a sigh in defeat. It was only a matter of time, he thinks. They’d been getting sick of lying and wanted to tell someone outside of family for weeks now. Besides, it’s hardly in their control at this point.

Not saying another word, he turns away from Niall and makes his way to the bathroom door. He stands outside for a moment before lifting his hand and knocking softly against the wood.

“You can come out now, Lou.” He says, head leaning close against the door, knowing Louis is probably right there on the other side, listening intently to everything that’s transpired in the past few painstaking minutes, “Niall knows.”

It really feels like some kind of karma with how eerily similar this is to an episode of _Friends_. Harry half expects the dressing room wall to fall away to an audience of a hundred; gaping and giggling at the scene before them. When the door to the bathroom slowly opens, and a shirtless and very sheepish Louis Tomlinson walks out, Harry is sure now would be the perfect time for the laugh track. It doesn’t come, nor do his nerves cease.

“Oh, man,” Niall cackles, shaking his head and looking between Harry and Louis, “ _Oh, man_.”

“Alright, Nialler?” Louis asks with a forced casualness, standing to his fullest height and sucking in a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” Niall scoffs out, eyebrows knitted and grin plastered, looking Louis up and down, “Mate, this is _too good_.”

Louis must be on the same wavelength to Harry about the whole _Friends_ thing, because once he’s standing beside him, oozing a confidence Harry cannot dream of achieving right now, he leans over and mutters, “He knows we know he knows.” Harry glances down at him, all the tension in his body evaporating at the way Louis winks back at him. He knows what Louis is trying to do, he’s taking the brunt of the pure terror they’re experiencing and trying to make Harry laugh, trying to remind him that this is Niall – not some domineering manager come to ruin their lives. He’s their _friend_. He’s someone who's been with them every step of the way and knows them as long as they’ve known each other. The moment Harry lets that sink in, he’s able to laugh.

“Put your shirt back on, please.” Harry tells Louis, quieter and calmer than he had been just seconds ago.

“So you’re tellin’ me I’m not goin’ crazy then?” Niall asks, still half gaping between the two of them while Louis hastily puts his shirt back on. “There _is_ something happening between the two of you? For real this time?”

“What d’ya mean _‘for real this time’?_ ” Louis perks up indignantly, his hair a little ruffled from tugging his shirt over his head.

“Mate, come on! The past few years? Haven’t been blind, have I? None of us have.”

“Yeah – well,” Harry begins, the side of his lip twitching awkwardly. “ _About that_ –”

“You haven’t been together this whole time, have you?” Niall quickly interrupts, looking scandalized.

“No.” Harry says firmly.

“ _No_ , definitely not.” Louis adds, eyebrows raised and eyes glassy at the very notion. Harry frowns at him, a ghost of a smile twitching as if to ask why Louis was so quick to debunk the idea. Louis rolls his eyes, communicating with a single smirk just for Harry, to show that’s not at all what he meant. He looks back at Niall (who is oblivious to the silent conversation between Harry and Louis), and heaves a sincerely disappointed sigh, “ _Unfortunately_.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” Niall shrugs. “I was just saying to Liam the other day – I said – what the hell’s goin’ on with them anyway?”

Despite everything, Harry feels chuffed – _delighted_ even and his stomach churns with it. Knowing people were thinking of them as mutually exclusive, that every time their love felt invalidated or suppressed, even his best friends could see it.

“ _Not Liam_ , _too_. Christ.” Louis mutters, rubbing his face with his hands before they fall at his side. Harry wants to take one in his own then, wants to feel the dainty yet sturdy grip of Louis’ fingers entwined with his.

“It’s not as if he’s clueless to it, mate. He reckons you’re just best friends. Figured you’d tell us straight away if there was anything… oh, man,” he shakes his head before sighing, “How long, then?”

“Roughly two months.” Harry answers. The number somehow doesn’t do it justice, Harry thinks to himself. Two months out of almost five years of love between them. Thinking back on it now, the lines of it are blurred. What defines the moment that _just_ Harry became Harry and Louis? Because for as long as he can remember, it’s always been the two of them. Was it the night they kissed in the car? Was it the day they spent together back in Holmes Chapel? Or was it all those months ago, not knowing then that a single plane trip could change Harry’s whole life? Sure, if he’s being technical, that morning after hearing _Home_ for the first time cemented everything. But if he’s being _honest,_ if he’s listening to his _heart_ – Harry’s sure it all started the day they met in 2010.

“Before this leg?” Niall clarifies incredulously, impressed almost by how they managed not to get caught earlier. Even though it should feel like an interrogation, Niall’s lighthearted tone and happy-go-lucky demeanour makes it far from.   

“Yeah…” Louis chimes in this time, looking across at Harry with a fond expression. Harry feels he could melt to a puddle on the floor with the way Louis looks at him. It’s all soft and filled with love, there’s no other way to describe it. Louis just loves him. There’s not a lot that makes sense in this world, but that’s one thing Harry knows for certain.

“Un-fucking-believable you two are.” Niall says, effectively bursting the bubble Harry and Louis were encapsulated in for that very short period, the two of them returning their attention to him.

“Please don’t say anything to Liam.” Harry pleads, feeling Louis adjust his posture and flick his hair beside him.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Niall says with a chortle. “I can’t keep this from Liam! I’m a terrible liar.”

“We were going to tell both of you,” Harry begins, folding his arms and looking stern, “Just… not like _this_.” He gestures vaguely to Louis and back to himself before folding his arms apprehensively.

Niall looks as if he’s about to argue – probably something about how Liam won’t mind, that they understand or that it's not even that big of a deal, though he’ll do it with a disbelieving laugh that’ll counteract his words. He can’t do any of that, though, because before anyone can speak Liam is walking back through the dressing room door.

“Harry, he’s not–” Liam cuts himself off the moment he looks up, strolling to a stop front of his three band mates who stand stiff and tense before him. “Oh, Louis! There you are. Didn’t see you there.” He says instead, looking the epitome of relaxed compared to his friends. “Wait – did you just come in?” he asks Louis directly, ignoring (or perhaps just totally oblivious to) the way Niall and Harry are staring each other down nervously.

“What do you want, Liam?” Louis quips. Harry is sure it was meant to be said in his usual sarcastic jesting way, but in his nerves it comes across kind of aggressive.  

“Alright, no need to snap at me.” Liam frowns, looking baffled. “Just wanted to borrow your headphones. You know those sick ones you got. You said I could give them a go.”

Harry gulps, his throat constricting in fear. He knows exactly where Louis’ brand new headphones are. There’s _no way_ Liam will be borrowing them any time soon, not before Louis gets them out of Harry’s suitcase and replaces them with his own belongings.

“…I lost them.” Louis lies after a prolonged, awkward silence. The excuse makes Harry’s stomach churn, because he knows it was the wrong thing to say. He can’t explain it to his boyfriend in the time before Liam responds, though, not without giving them away completely. So he just stands there rigidly.

“No, you didn’t,” Liam answers, as Harry knew he would, “I saw Harry using ‘em on the other day.”

 _Excellent._  

Niall chews his nails nervously, far from the jovial carefree boy he was moments ago, proving just how serious he was about the whole ‘terrible liar’ thing.

“What’s everyone so tense for?” Liam asks, letting out a laugh as he looks between Niall, Louis and Harry.

“Err – nothing, mate. Just pre-show nerves, I guess.” Louis answers a little too quickly, and Harry blinks slowly, wondering how on Earth they’re meant to get out of it now.

“Pre-show? Mate, are you barking?” Liam cackles, looking at Louis as if he’s mad. “We’ve already done the gig!”

“Post-show. Post-show is what I meant,” Louis corrects himself quickly, Harry doing all he can not to face palm beside him, “You know, left over adrenaline and whatever.”

“Nah…” Liam shakes his head, watching Louis with a sceptical expression, mouth twitching with amusement. He narrows his eyes, looking at Louis and then at Harry. “Nah, that’s not it.” There’s a pause, which only accentuates the nervous energy in the room, Niall’s hand glued to his mouth and Louis’ lips taut with guilt. Harry doesn’t know what he looks like, but he’s sure he’s just as unconvincing. “There’s no such thing as post-show nerves. You’re all keeping something from me.” When no one denies it, he folds his arms and shifts the weight from one foot to another. “Come on, then. Spit it out.”

Harry huffs then, looking at Louis who stares back imploringly. “Well, there’s no point now that Niall knows, is there?” he remarks with exasperation, gesturing at the Irish boy who’s getting paler by the second.

“What on Earth are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Liam asks, brows knitted and lower lip jutted in adorable confusion.

With a final glance at Louis, who nods minutely in approval, Harry turns back to Liam and takes in a deep breath.

“Err… uh, so…” Harry’s lips twitch, suppressing the cringe at how he’s meant to word this. He feels like he’s standing in front of his parents; it’s sixth form and he’s introducing his first girlfriend. “Me and Louis, we… we’re in a relationship.” And then because Liam stares blankly he adds, “With each other. Like a… romantic, gay relationship.”

“I think he gets it, Haz.” Louis mutters from the corner of his mouth, smirking without taking his eyes off the gaping Liam.

“Oh.” Liam raises his eyebrows in delayed reaction, looking across at Niall who shrugs back at him, a glint of humour in his eyes. He then looks at Harry and Louis, his expression that of mild surprise. “So that’s why you picked up his phone the other day,” He concludes, mouth pouting but tone completely light, “Thought that was a bit weird!” he almost laughs the last part, and Harry can feel Louis physically relax next to him.

Harry lets out a huff of laughter at that comment, remembering the moment well.

“Well. Can’t say I’m surprised.” Liam shrugs. “Although, Tommo – why’d you never tell me you were gay?”

Niall lets out a bark of laughter, clutching his chest as he looks at a frowning Liam. “You’re kidding, right? Even I have a better Gaydar than you, Payno.”

At the word ‘Gaydar’ coming out in Niall’s laid back Irish twang, Harry and Louis groan – Harry pinching the bridge of his nose while Louis shakes his head. They’re thinking the same thing – just how cringeworthy their mates are being about this, but it’s somehow completely endearing too.

“Hey! I was never analysin’ it that much, was I?”

“We’re talkin’ about the same Louis, right? The one who was all over Harry during the X Factor?”

“Oh, thanks, Niall. Really great.” Louis interrupts, oozing sarcasm, yet the second he looks across at the squinty eyed grinning Harry he can hardly keep his own laughter at bay.

“You’re in love!” Liam declares suddenly, half clarifying, half stating aloud so that he can wrap his head around it.

“I guess.” Harry says with a shrug, expression as grim as he can muster. Louis jabs him in the side and he buckles at the contact, “I deserved that.” He concludes in an almost winded husk of a voice, simply making Louis giggle behind his hand.  

“Yeah, we are. Very much so.” Louis answers instead, lips pursing as if to contain all the joy that threatens to take over his face.

“I was just askin’ when the hell this happened,” Niall tells Liam, looking as if he’s ready to tease Harry and Louis into the next decade, “Turns out these two’ve been sneakin’ around all tour and we didn’t even notice.”

Louis and Harry can’t help but look smug at that, though they know Niall is being generous – had the boys been a little more perceptive, it wouldn’t have been hard to figure it out. Lucky they’ve got clueless fools for best friends, then.

“Anyway, none of that matters,” Liam says then, batting his hand as if physically waving away the technicalities. Of course, it _does_ matter – all the little details – but everyone can sense by the tone of the room and the immediate excitement that there would be a time and a place for that later. “Because my two best mates are in love and I think that’s just bloody amazing.” He continues. He makes some sort of strangled, excitable noise – somewhere between an ‘aw’ and a squeal, if Harry had to describe it as such. And then he’s rushing toward Harry in an unexpected surge. He grabs Harry’s cheeks in his hands and pulls him down to leave a smacking kiss on his cheek, just like he does when he gets overly affectionate after a drink or two at a party. The gesture makes Harry’s eyebrows raise and eyes widen, a shocked laugh escaping as Niall and Louis look on with amusement.

When he pulls away, he’s still holding Harry’s head between his hands, beaming as bright as the sun. Jesus – Harry’s thought it before, but there’s just something so endearingly contagious about Liam’s damn smile.

“I’m so _‘appy_ for you lot.” Liam continues, ignoring the way Niall is sniggering into his hands and even more so ignoring the look of utter judgement on Louis’ face as he goes in to kiss him, too. Harry laughs the moment he tries it, Louis’ hands outstretched as he backs away reluctantly.

“Hey, _whoa_ – get off me, Payno!”

Liam seems unfazed by Louis’ rejection, eyes falling to Niall. “This is brilliant.” Niall nods quickly in agreement, too preoccupied by Liam’s enthusiasm to offer up any original thought. “Aw, _guys_ ,” he continues, looking between them adoringly.  

“Jesus, who knew this big guy was such a dorky sap.” Louis remarks, gesturing with his thumb at Liam. Harry can see he’s hiding behind bravado and humour, that stripped of it Louis is completely touched by the positive reaction from their two best friends. He’s sure he’ll chatter to Harry endlessly about it later, while they lie in bed feeling as if a part of the burden has been lifted now that just two more people know about them. Harry can’t wait.

“You had a few, Liam?” Niall chimes in and Liam just rolls his eyes, the smile unshakable and the apples of his cheeks rosy as ever before.

“So wait – did me and Nialler interrupt… _y’know_ …” Liam trails off.

“Don’t say it!” Niall quickly says, cringing.

“What we do in our own dressing room is none of your business, thank you very much, Liam.” Harry says sternly, though it’s all for show. Niall, Liam and Louis can tell it is, too, because none of them take him seriously.

“That’s why the door was locked! We nearly barged in on them doin’ it!” Liam says anyway, disregarding the scowl he’s receiving from pretty much all of them.

“Oh, bloody hell, I don’t need a visual.” Niall mutters, covering his face with embarrassment.

“Fuck off, Neil.” Louis retorts, Harry snorting at how venomous the insult sounds in such a light setting.

“What! You’d say the same about me if I brought Mani on tour.”

“Don’t be disgusting.” Harry says then, looking completely offended by the idea of heterosexual sex. Of course, he isn’t _really_ and in fact – Normani has hung out backstage after a few shows already – fitting it in between her time off from Fifth Harmony’s tour. In the short time Harry has had to make small talk, he’s found she’s a lovely girl.

“She’s too good for you anyway, Niall.” Louis tacks onto Harry’s response teasingly.

“Exactly!” Niall laughs, head tilting back. “Hey, wait, fuck off,” he quickly amends himself, frowning as he realises Louis’ backhanded remark. When Louis just flicks his tongue in his mouth and wiggles his eyebrows cockily, Niall shakes his head in mock offence.

“Suppose we should leave you to it, then.” Liam says then, folding his arms tight at his chest. “Good thing we know now, hey, Niall?” he says, elbow nudging his mate next to him. He looks back at Harry and Louis before adding, “Won’t be running into your rooms in a hurry any time soon.”

“Thank _bloody_ God.” Louis states in an exaggerated tone, folding his arms with an exasperation that brings a round of laughter.  

Liam’s a better friend than Harry could ever dream of, and Niall too, he realises – watching the pair of them as they grin ear to ear. Living a life like this – constantly in the limelight, being picked apart and ridiculed at every turn – staying grounded and sane can seem like an impossible feat. It took so long for Harry to get to this place; this place of love and support and complete confidence in himself that now he’s here, navigating it smoothly, it feels like a dream. The ups, the downs and everything in between – he has his best friends every step of the way. _How did I get so lucky?_ he wonders. How did he get so lucky as to end up with these three – out of everyone all those years ago in the X Factor auditions? He always thought planets aligned for him to find Louis, but a cosmic force brought him to Liam and Niall too. The thought makes Harry’s chest swell with love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, posted a little later than expected. Some life things got in the way! I can't really estimate when the next chapter will be up, but I'm going to anyway, and say that it should update in the next three weeks. 
> 
> Bear with me on this list of references, because this chapter is heavily based around OTRA, there's a _helluvah lotta_ links to the most random details. So much so that I've sort of categorised them. Hope it doesn't do your head in! 
> 
> Outfits:
> 
> • Harry’s ['Styles' embroidered shirt](http://o.aolcdn.com/dims-shared/dims3/GLOB/crop/2999x1817+0+166/resize/660x400!/format/jpg/quality/85/http://hss-prod.hss.aol.com/hss/storage/midas/4f106d72bcd8c47efa1a798a15c5a325/203199240/499998200.jpg)  
> • Louis’ [Adidas jacket](http://sugarscape.cdnds.net/15/40/1443681555-spl1140889-004.jpg)  
> • What the boys [wore](https://www.instagram.com/p/3j_u5uymt4/?taken-by=onedirection&hl=en) for the first show back in Cardiff  
> • The [outfit](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-3149000/Harry-Styles-insists-One-Direction-played-BEST-shows-four-piece-following-shock-departure-Zayn-Malik.html) Louis ‘roasts’ Harry about  
> • Louis' ['The Future Is Now' shirt](https://cdn1.thehunt.com/app/public/system/zine_images/9457084/original/d2bcb06ab9325b51379d907d81752291.jpeg)  
>   
> Dates:
> 
> • OTRA began again early June in England  
> • All tour dates and places referenced are correct and can be found [here](http://www.onedirectionmusic.com/au/tour/archive)  
> • The Larry Sign did happen but on 23rd concert, not 27th. But I had to mention it!  
> • Gay marriage is legalised in America universally June 26th  
> • Louis wears ‘The Future Is Now’ shirt for the first time 23rd, and then again after marriage equality was passed in U.S on the 27th  
>   
> OTRA Tour:
> 
> • The [selfie](https://www.instagram.com/p/35B5r8MyA7/?taken-by=niallhoran&hl=en) Niall took before the Brussell’s performance  
> • 'No Control' and '18' being [added to the set list](http://www.sugarscape.com/music/news/a1078856/one-direction-no-control-18-otra/)  
> • “The audience is very colourful tonight and for a lot of you I know why… and that’s great." ([source](http://morethantonight.tumblr.com/post/122651122957/harry-addressing-the-rainbows-in-the-audience))  
> • ["Where’s Harry? Where’s LOUIS?" moment](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=puaaUw8V4CE) happened Feb 15th in Melbourne show, but I put it here for the hell of it  
>   
> Trivia:
> 
> • Harry and Louis [have made references](http://jetpackers.tumblr.com/post/106915812917) to 'Friends' and Chandler/Monica in the past so… I just had to. They have also separately said they enjoy the show (can’t be bothered linking that source though)  
> • [This is the scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsCoU5ullKI) they are specifically quoting  
> • The whole laundry thing is also a little homage to [this cute moment](http://kiisfm.iheart.com/articles/kiis-jingle-ball-2015-videos-496012/one-direction-backstage-at-kiisfm-jingle-14178195/) (first video, 1:35 mins in is the time stamp) which was Larry referencing Friends in the first place, so it’s all very meta.  
>   
> And yes, you heard it right - Normani Kordei and Niall Horan are a thing. Or at least in my version of canon they are. Unlikely match, I know, but honestly? I adore them. As far as I'm aware, I'm the pioneer of this crackship, and my dear friend Phoebe has made some [cute manips](http://normiall.tumblr.com/post/151490362038/rainbowliam-normiall-instagram#notes)... maybe you'll find it cute too.


	10. Night Changes

_‘We’re only getting older baby and I’ve been thinking about it lately… does it ever drive you crazy, just how fast the night changes? Everything that you’ve ever dreamed of, disappearing when you wake up… but there’s nothing to be afraid of. Even when the night changes, it will never change me and you.’_

 Middle of the day sex is his favourite kind, Louis decides in the midst of post-coital bliss, unable to think of much else. They’ve done it a handful of times – perhaps more – if Louis really bothered to count, and each time is something entirely domesticated and invigoratingly sexy at the same time. He likes the way it makes him feel after, too, when the pair of them eventually return to reality, back to their day-to-day doings with wobbly legs and swollen lips, carrying this secret intimacy written all over their bodies. He likes that it reminds him of their first time – with the sun trying to filter in through the shutters and the way the day still stretches out endlessly before them; that they could achieve anything and still wind up in each other’s arms.

Most of all, Louis likes that middle of the day sex usually, if not always, occurs on days in which they’re able to do absolutely fuck-all. Like today, for instance, where it’s 2:04pm according to the digital clock on the bedside table, and they’re yet to have vacated their bed.

Louis signs outwardly at the thought – _their_ bed. Not his, which Harry is temporarily sharing with him – nor Harry’s, which Louis will have to wriggle out of and abandon in exchange for his own room within the hour. _Louis and Harry’s_ bed, in _Louis and Harry’s_ hotel room. _God,_ it’s fucking good to be able to call it that.

Judging by the soft humming emanating from those plump lips Louis thinks he could stare at for hours (that being the next best thing after actually kissing said lips), Harry, too, is satisfied to stay right where they are. Time, as it were, stops short of room 307, just so Harry and Louis can be alone without a care in the world. Well, it’s certainly how it feels to Louis, anyway; but that might just be his inflated pop star ego talking.

Louis’ eyes are wide open, his attention drawn to the boy in his arms, all freshly undone in every way possible – the rise and fall of his chest like some kind of symphony. Louis feels like his eyes have tilt shift (a photographic term Harry’d grin big with pride to hear Louis use correctly), as if everything else is blurry and the minute details are in sharp focus. The soft short hairs on the back of Harry’s neck, visible because his hair is freshly up in a bun. The artful display of tattoos running along Harry’s arm; the ship on its way home, the thorny rose, the amateur scribbles worthy only of being doodled on an old high school textbook or scratched into the linoleum during third period Maths; somehow etched into the pearly pink of Harry’s wrist, they are made magnificent. Louis knows them all now, intimately – their stories and what they mean. Just as he knows Harry; like the back of his own hand, like a part of himself long lost has now returned for what will be a lifetime.

Harry’s humming sends Louis’ eyelids a flutter, and though he doesn’t plan to nap in the middle of the day (he’s not even 24-years-old yet, _no way_ has he reached that part of his life), he doesn’t mind the tranquility of resting his eyes to the low harmony of his boyfriend’s voice.

It’s a nice little tune, one Louis doesn’t recognise a bit especially with Harry’s smooth, chocolatey voice putting him in some kind of trance. He assumes it must be a Harry original, like the array of melodies he’s heard alone with him over the past couple of months – from the upbeat whistle cleaning up the dishes at home to the low rumbling hum in the back of a taxi and even the absent-minded musical mumbles while he checks his Twitter feed on the couch in the green room. Louis mentally adds it to the collection of beautiful sounds made by Harry Edward Styles that only he, the self proclaimed luckiest man on Earth (because truly, he _must_ be, given the current situation), gets to hear.

“M'knackered now,” Louis mumbles, his lips brushing the skin on Harry’s bare back, right by his spine, right where he knows it’ll send ripples. And it does; momentarily the humming ceases at the contact as Louis adds, “I’ll be snoozing if you do any more of that.”

“Snoozing, hey?” Harry asks, low and crisp somehow. He cranes his neck just a fraction, not completely looking back but trying to, “Didn’t realise I was that boring…”

Louis bats Harry’s arm in playful punishment, not even opening his eyes to retort, “You _fool_ ,” under his breath in what he hopes is an assertively reprimanding tone, but judging by Harry’s endeared soft laugh is anything from. “You make me so calm.” He says instead of teasing any longer, not having the stamina today with the warm sun the way it is, and focusing on Harry’s breathing – in and out, in and out – making him a lot more tired than he ever thought he could get in the middle of the afternoon without jet lag or some other reasonable excuse.

Harry seems to like that remark, so much so that he twists around in the sheets to face Louis front on. Louis opens his eyes to that, seeing the content smile on Harry’s face inches from his own.

“You; for me, too.” Harry promises, his hand wandering beneath the covers without purpose or intent; he’s just feeling his way to Louis’ hand and playing with his fingers.

“Shh, keep singing.” Louis demands, his eyes already closing in preparation. So Harry does exactly that, after rumbled laughter and a comment about ‘bossy boots’. And it’s nice, all of it, impossibly so – the warbling way Harry’s voice sounds, like a morning bird, and the fact that his hand hasn’t moved from Louis’.

“Baby, you’re perfect,” Louis mumbles across Harry’s crooning, opening his eyes to find green eyes looking right back at him. The sincerity in his words should be cringe-worthy, and he guesses they are, but he doesn’t care. Harry doesn’t either, smiling giddily; teeth and pure joy, embracing Louis and all his clichés.

“Baby, I’m perfect for you,” Harry sings back in that same tune, nuzzling closer at the appreciative giggle Louis let’s out. It’s sickeningly sweet, all of it, and Louis wants nothing more than a tooth decay, or two or three, if it means he gets to soak up the sugary goodness with Harry for just that bit longer.

“An _exclusive_ look into the creative genius behind One Direction.” Louis jokes, frowning and making his voice several octaves lower, drawling the syllables to mock all those gossip shows he hates – the ones that are all the same load of crap, especially _TMZ_.

“Soaring to number one across the globe, ‘Baby, You’re Perfect’ by One Direction!” Harry plays along enthusiastically, his American accent almost as bad as Louis’.

“ _No_ ,” Louis whines with a laugh, leaning closer flirtatiously, “Just ‘Perfect’; sounds more legit, don’t you think?”

“Oh, definitely. You’re right.”

# …

After one particular show in Seattle, Louis, Liam, Niall, and Harry find themselves utterly exhausted staying up in the makeshift recording studio (otherwise known as Liam’s hotel room). Some of their best vocals are recorded up in hotel rooms, the acoustics always alternating from place to place; somehow adding to the gritty, unique sound that they’re going for this album. Yet nothing is quite sounding right tonight; yawns cracking and eyes half lidded with exhaustion – all of them worked to the bone from trying to get the finishing touches to _Drag Me Down_ done for the deadline. By the time it feels polished and, if Louis is honest, pretty fucking sick , and they’re moving onto the vocals for _Never Enough_ ; they have, ironically, had enough.

Several energy drinks, two whole cigarettes, and a quick toilet break later, Louis – along with the rest of the band – manage to get back into the swing of things. Only, with the early hours comes silliness and, due to the informal setting of Liam’s bedroom, the back up vocals for _Never Enough_ start to sound ridiculous fairly quickly. Niall is the first to crack, laughing at the low gruff sound of their harmonised vocals, announcing just how much he loves the Stevie Wonder style horn riffs of the chorus. Liam joins in, taking the piss out of his own high notes by screaming them repeatedly until Julian claims it actually sounds kind of cool over the trumpet, trombone, and sax combination.

The boys have to restart at least five times thanks to the uncontrollable laughter coming from all four of them, and when they finally _do_ co-operate, the vocals are sung with huge grins on their faces and cheesy dance moves. Julian is patient, watching them from the hotel bed as they snap their fingers and tap their feet jovially to the beat. He must figure that as long as they’re singing and actually _working_ – the method behind it doesn’t matter too much.

The other boys are dancing in such synchronisation that Louis is sure the dance choreographers of music videos gone by would be fuming to witness it. He has to admit it; the whole song feels a little like they’re in Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, and he can practically picture the four-piece stepping out in matching suits and haircuts to perform it live for the first time. The thought just makes the whole recording session that much funnier and, by the end of the night, he swears he’s not got any laughs left within him.

# …

“Okay, Louis – could you try that part for me again?” Julian’s American drawl rings through the room, loud and assertive, “A little more… _oomph_ behind that last part, okay?”

It’s later in the same week, and instead of being hauled up in one of their hotel rooms, the band has been provided a studio to record their next vocals. Right now, though, it’s just Louis in the booth – singing his parts for _Walking In The Wind_.

Louis’ head peaks out from around the equipment in the booth to nod at Julian on the other side of the glass and then he’s singing from the the pre-chorus again. The melody is fairly straight forward, a song that drifts and peaks in unison to the lyrics. The more Louis performs it, the more his fondness grows for the song.

He’s in the middle of singing his solo when the door opens across the way and Harry wanders in. Louis shouldn’t be surprised to see his boyfriend, considering they’re all but joined at the hip as of late. Yet the second he makes eye contact with him through the glass divide, Louis stutters through his lines like a complete star-struck idiot. Harry pulls a guilty expression as he relaxes into the chair beside Julian, who only fleetingly looks up to see what distracted Louis enough to mess up his vocals. Harry gives Louis a hasty and encouraging thumbs up, which doesn’t help at all because it just makes Louis laugh throughout the next lyric.

“Sorry, boys,” Louis says then, the music still blasting in his headphones. He tugs them off to better see the exasperated expressions on Julian, John and Jamie’s faces.

“That was my fault.” Harry cuts in a deep tone, his eyes not moving away from Louis’.

“From the top.” Julian states, far too professional to bother with their antics. If he – or any of them, in fact – are surprised to see the tall, long haired band member, they don’t say as much, instead focusing solely on Louis. Julian’s head bows the second he rewinds the track, jotting the occasional note as he listens intently through his headphones. John stares at his laptop, probably tweaking the audio for something, and Jamie just waits patiently.

Since Liam and Niall discovered them so unceremoniously in the dressing room, neither Harry or Louis have been particularly stealthy when it comes to hiding their relationship (though it’s _constantly_ argued by a teasing Niall that , in hindsight, the couple had truly been anything _but_ subtle). As far as Julian is explicitly aware, they are just colleagues; but Louis is sure he’s started to pick up on things here and there. Harry sauntering into Louis’ recording session at the ungodly hour of three in the morning and looking nothing short of delighted to be here is just another suspicious thing to add to the endless list. Louis knows Julian well enough to be aware of how work focused he is, though, and hardly expects him to gossip like a teenage girl in a high school hallway. As long as management remain clueless, Louis breathes easy; they’re trusting in Julian and John and countless others that must suspect not to mention a thing to anyone who who could get them in trouble.

The first time he sings his solo with Harry present, he does it smoothly and without fault. When John mutters something to Julian about moving onto the chorus, however, Louis decides to make a very deliberate mistake and instead of belting ‘walking in the wind’ as his IPhone notes tell him to, he sings ‘salad in the wind’.

The response is mixed – Julian shaking his head in exasperation, John smirking and Harry unable to stop himself from giggling. The latter part is kind of what Louis was hoping to achieve, the temptation to show off around Harry far too overwhelming to ignore.

“ _From the top_.” Is all Julian can repeat, gesturing with his finger impatiently.

Louis happily obliges – listening as the instrumental builds to the chorus in his headphones and again singing ‘salad in the wind’. With a mischievous expression, he insists to a glowering Julian that those are the actual lyrics – after all, his old tweet of the same lyrics had been what brought the song into fruition all those weeks ago during a late night workshop.

“Okay, okay. Serious now, I promise.” Louis assures everyone, winking at Harry who’s sporting a dimpled grin in response. Louis is still looking at him when Harry leans closer to the glass and mouths something to him. Squinting over, Louis frowns at Harry in complete confusion. Harry’s eyes flick across guiltily to Julian, who remains glued to his notebook, and then mouths the word slower and clearer. Silently, Louis shakes his head across at him, unable to figure out what he’s trying to tell him. Harry huffs, leans even closer and this time Louis figures it out – ‘farting’. It takes him a second to realise what the hell Harry is talking about and why bodily gas is on his mind, but when he does he lets out a snort.

“What’s so funny?” Julian remarks, looking up from his notes at Louis and at the goofy Harry beside him, who manages to compose himself enough to feign obliviousness.  

“Oh, nothing at all,” Louis offers, eyebrows raised and mouth slack with mock innocence. When Julian’s expression doesn’t soften, Louis continues to lie, “Just really having fun recording with you lot.”

“Sure.” Jamie snorts.

“A bit antagonistic there, Jamie.” Louis snaps, eyebrows knitted and voice an octave higher from indignation. Jamie rolls his eyes, not saying anything.

“It’s three in the goddamn morning, Louis.” John states, glowering at him.

“Good point.” Louis replies, “So from the top then?” The sarcasm in his tone is evident – because _of course_ it’s from the top, considering how many times Julian has been made to say that exact phrase since Harry entered the room.

The chorus builds and Louis sings with as much of that ‘oomph’ Julian asked him for.

“ _And you will find me_ ,” he begins, voice rising at the end, “ _Yeah, you will find_ _me in places that we’ve never been_ ,” the strum of the guitar and heavy beat of the drums echo in his headphones. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, watching with complete devotion and a touch of anticipation, “ _For reasons we don’t understand!_ ” And then with a smirk at his lips, “ _FARTING in the wind!”_

Harry is in stitches on the other side of the glass, leaning back against his chair with eyes squinty and cheeks dimpling. Julian, on the other hand, looks immensely unimpressed by Louis’ middle school humour. He scowls first at Louis before whipping his head around to Harry, who pulls a serious face and pretends to look off in pursuit of other tasks.

“For God’s sake!” Julian shouts, up in arms before slumping against the power board. “I hate you.” He mumbles into his folded arms while everyone else laughs around him. “I hate you so much.”

Honestly, it _is_ a childish move, he’s aware of that – and so it’s fitting that his laughter is that of a twelve-year-old after the fact. Once the laughter has subsided just enough for him to pull off his headphones and crane his neck to see the reactions of everyone else, he’s already laughing again.

“Please focus.” Julian announces through the mic for Louis to hear.

“I like it better, to be honest with you, Julian.” Louis remarks casually, rolling his weight onto one leg and placing his hand at his jutted hip, “Should ask the boys what they think. Permanent lyric change, maybe?”

Julian doesn’t even dignify Louis’ joke with a verbal response, shaking his head wearily. It’s late and it seems he’s reached his limit in what pranks he’ll stomach. He runs his hands down his face and turns to look at Harry seated beside him.

“And you!” he quips, pointing directly at the grinning brunet, “Don’t encourage him!”

“I’ve done _absolutely_ nothing!” Harry defends with a chortle, raising his hands in mock defeat, “I am an innocent third party.”

“I can _literally_ see you mouthing things to him through the glass.” Julian retorts, gesturing at Louis on the other side, “You’re not even meant to be here! You’ve recorded your part. I will not hesitate to whoop your ass, Styles.”

“You can’t do that. How will you record the rest of the album without me?”

“Something tells me it’d run a lot smoother, that’s for sure.”

“Alright, I get it! I’ll be professional, _jeez!_ ” Harry responds melodramatically, rolling his eyes and grinning stupidly after the fact.

# …

When Louis finds Harry, he’s deep in silent contemplation. He almost considers leaving him be entirely – unsure if Harry is being struck with musical genius or simply having a personal moment. It turns out to be neither, Louis realises, as he gently shuts the dressing room door behind him. Harry turns to face him the second the sound gives Louis’ presence away, frowning and holding his lip in mid-thought.

“I’m trying to decide between these pair.” Harry finally breaks the silence, unfolding his arms in a more welcoming gesture.

Louis doesn’t quite know what he’s talking about, that is, until Harry looks away from him and back down at his row of shoes. He huffs a laugh, but as he approaches and sees the very serious expression on Harry’s face he lets it quickly subside.

“Which ones?” Louis asks, looking down at the array of thousand dollar boots. There’s a few battered ones – like Harry’s favourite pair that he refuses to throw out, and even a pair of old converse that Louis is pretty sure are his. He’s not surprised to see them here, though, in ‘Harry’s’ dressing room (he uses the term lightly nowadays considering they practically share) because with travelling to and from city to city, belongings get a little mixed and matched. Hell, Louis is sure he’s even got a t-shirt of Niall’s floating around in his wardrobe.

Harry doesn’t speak in response, pointing down at the golden Dior pair and then at the metallic silver and blue ones alongside it.

“The gold are your favourite.” Louis states, opting for a vague answer because truly, Harry looks good no matter what shoes he wears. Silently, he thinks they're his favourite, too. He thinks of all the times he’s watched them glint as Harry eagerly pulled them off before rushing to connect their lips, still high on the adrenaline of a show and knowing no better way of celebrating than kissing one another. Or the deep concentration lines in the furrows of Harry’s brows when he inspects the gold surface for any imperfections or scratches after being made to shove them in his on-board carrier case. The shoes are golden – just as Harry is – so of course Louis loves them.

“Hmm.” There’s something utterly enchanting in the way Harry looks down at the shoes, like a high-class art collector choosing between two Van Gogh paintings. Louis can’t help the hint of a smile tweaking at his lips.

“Well, what do they say?” Louis begins, Harry looking across at him; and the second he does, the lines between his brows soften to something smooth. “I mean,” he gestures down, before picking up the metallic pair and holding them. He’s trying to ignore the twitch of a smirk at Harry’s lips, knowing it’s because Louis’ hands look entirely swamped trying to hold Harry’s huge boots. “These ones definitely say 'Howdy Partner!’”

Harry laughs at that, bringing a much bigger smile on Louis’ face at the sight.

“But it’s a bit rodeo, isn’t it? Are you trying to integrate country into One Direction?” Louis can see the more he says, the bigger Harry’s self-deprecating grin gets – and a challenge like that is hard to resist. “Or…” he knocks the boots together in his hands, “Is this your way of telling me you want to role-play _Brokeback Mountain_?”

“I really wish I _did_ know how to quit you,” Harry responds, expression totally deadpan in a way that makes Louis let out a bark of laughter, “But no. I’m not interested in role-playing cowboys with you.”

“That’s a bit disappointing, to be frank with you,” Louis pouts, slackening his shoulders and huffing melodramatically, “What am I supposed to do with the Stetson I bought?”

Harry laughs, running a hand through his shiny curls, and Louis is sure he’s remembering that first afternoon on Louis’ couch, the 2005 drama playing in the background and a warmth filling their chests in the wake of everything they unearthed together. That hadn’t been the first time they had fallen asleep in one another’s arms, not by a long shot – and, amusingly so, not even the first for the year – but it was certainly the most touching. Louis has always liked _Brokeback Mountain_ , even if it is a heartbreaking tragedy of a love story. Now that it’s so inexplicably tied to Harry, he can’t avoid the butterflies he gets just mentioning it.

“The gold ones, then.” Harry says instead of answering Louis’ teasing question.

Not much else can be said – aside from the exchange of adoring looks – before the door is bursting open and Louis swears he’s experiencing déjà vu. Though instead of the leisurely strides and cheerful greetings from Niall and Liam like the fateful day back in Helsinki, a wave of tension is swept into the room the moment they enter.

“Have you lot seen this?” Liam announces sternly, his brows as knitted as Louis has ever seen them and striding with a determination that makes Harry and Louis’ smiles fall. Louis glances fleetingly at Niall, who follows closely behind Liam and, judging by the flustered look on his face, chased Liam in here – possibly trying to stop him from saying what he’s about to say, “This is the kind of _absolute bull_ I have to say to the press.”  

“Seen what?” Harry asks in a collected tone. Louis takes the distraction from himself to place Harry’s loud boots back in the row of shoes on the floor behind them. When he stands again, he rubs his hands together in an awkward attempt at easing his own anxiety. It doesn’t work, and instead he just stands there, uneasy.

“Look, just _look_ at it!” Liam hands them his phone, arm outstretched and expression unforgiving. It’s Harry who takes it, holding it in a way that makes it easy for Louis to read along with him.

A sinking feeling hits Louis’ stomach the moment he registers what he’s reading. It’s an article from _Attitude_ magazine, with an exclusive cover story with Liam. That part isn’t a surprise – he landed the gig just a few months ago and came from the shoot waxing lyrical about how fun it had been. It was really sweet, actually, just how passionate Liam was to discuss gay rights and the recent push for marriage equality. He’d gone on and on about it to Louis and Harry, promising to do them proud, knowing how important it was for them to be heard though they couldn’t speak for themselves (after all, management might not know they’re dating, but there’s no way they’d add fuel to the already burning fire surrounding them by letting Louis or Harry do an interview with a gay publication). As Louis scans the paragraphs, however, he begins to realise just how justified Liam’s anger is.

“I just took a bullet for you! Yet again!” Liam interjects before either Louis or Harry can finish reading. Harry responds by raising a finger in silence, which seems to work, at least for the time being.

The article is such a blatant attempt at damage control over the fan speculation that it quite honestly makes Louis sick. By the hardening expression on Harry’s face, it’s clear he’s not too happy about it either. Everything about it is bad – from the way it addresses Harry and Louis’ relationship, to the flippant disregard of the band’s LGBT fan-base. Louis’ gut reaction is to snap at Liam for saying the things he did – manipulated and misquoted or not – because it’s _that fucking awful._

“People are going to think I don’t support the fans.” Liam continues, having picked up on Louis and Harry’s reactions to be sure they’ve read it in full.  

“We didn’t tell you what to say, Liam. That was all you.” Harry responds coolly, his voice low and verging on domineering. It’s clear the content of the article has affected him as monumentally as it has Louis, so much so that it’s clouding his judgment of their friend.

“Course you didn’t! I didn’t even _say_ half that stuff!” Liam defends, all the while Niall chews his nails anxiously beside him. “But you’ve got no game plan here, Harry! You just keep going around almost…” He gets too frustrated with himself, searching for the right words before settling on ones that he doesn’t quite look pleased with, “ _Outing_ yourself,” There’s a moment he almost flinches, looking like he regrets that particular phrasing before getting worked up again and adding, “Then me and Niall have to go and pick up after you!”

Louis stiffens at that, and before Liam can explain himself further, he cuts across, “Hey! I don’t think that’s very fucking fair, Liam. It’s hardly a walk in the bloody park for us, is it?”

Niall looks as if he might interject – try and have a go at peacemaker – before he shuts his gaping mouth again. Louis knows Liam has a point – the man is hardly an irrational fighter, although he can be a hot-headed one. But Louis isn’t about to take it today, not when Liam is trivialising just how difficult it is to be in the closet.   

“That’s not what I meant, Louis. You know I’m here for you.”

“Then what the bloody hell do you mean?” Louis demands, shifting his stance a fraction with fiery energy, “‘Cause from where I’m standin’, it’s not lookin’ too good, mate!”

“You know me! You know I don’t ever believe any of that stuff,” he gestures at the phone, meaning the article and its contents. Everything about his demeanor and tone is stuttering and inarticulate, like he’s so worked up he can’t even express himself fully. “What are our fans going to think?” he adds with a pained expression before he huffs in defeat, “Just– why don’t you lot just figure it out?”

“Okay, I think we should all just calm down a minute here,” Niall finally interjects, hands raised in defeat as he moves closer to the inner circle, “He doesn’t mean it like that, we’re just worried about you guys getting hurt.”

Louis bites back what he wants to say, swallowing the insult with a dry gulp.

“We aren’t going into this totally blind, Liam,” Harry says, ending the tense silence, “We’ve thought very seriously about the future. Not just for us, but for the band.”

Liam looks crestfallen and he blinks slow and steady before murmuring, “I’m sorry, Tommo. I didn’t mean to make out like you have it easy.”

Liam has always been supportive of Louis and Harry individually, as well as a couple. Louis can’t even count the amount of times he’s covered for them in the short month and a half since he found out. Liam’s patience and understanding knows no bounds, so the fact that he’s standing here now, pouty puppy replaced by a grizzly bear with how angry he is – shows that he’s reached his limit. Louis’ anger subsides as he realises just how valid it is for Liam to be frustrated on his and Niall’s behalf, especially now that this article is painting him in such a negative light. He can’t even imagine what the fans must be saying, what they must think of Liam – and it’s all because he’s trying to protect them.

“S’okay, Payno. Don’t worry about it,” Louis mutters back, his voice softer than before, “Harry’s right, though. We’ve been meaning to have a talk with everyone as a band.”

“We’re listening.” Niall says, folding his arms.

Harry glances across at Louis, silently indicating that everything that’s been spoken under covers and through kisses, with strained whispers and loud frustration, can’t stay between just the two of them. Of course, Louis knew it never could – the future of their relationship is so heavily entwined with that of the band, they were never selfish enough not to consider the perspectives of Niall and Liam.

“It’s all very… complicated,” Harry states, scratching the back of his neck from discomfort. “Basically… we want to come out.”

“Of course.” Niall replies, Liam nodding firmly beside him. The gesture is so minute, yet Louis’ heart swells in his chest, ribcage tight around all the love it’s trying to contain.

“But it’s going to be very difficult with our current team.”

By the looks on Niall and Liam’s faces, they saw this coming. Conflict between the band and their management has constantly left a dark cloud hanging over the four of them – whether it was in regard to Harry and Louis’ relationship or not.

“What’re you thinking?” Niall asks.

“Well…” Louis perks up, voice raising at the end with nerves. He laces his fingers together, fidgeting as his mind races with the complicated predicament they are in. Jeff could probably explain this a lot better – Harry too, even, since he’s been meeting with the Azoffs since before he and Louis started dating; meeting with them about the whole coming out situation, that is. Louis’ still trying to wrap his head around it; the contracts and the obligations, the delicacy they’ll have to take in order to avoid a whole legal battle. If he knows Simon (and he does), he knows the man will do anything in his power to destroy all four of them if they don’t do it right, “S’bit of a fucking hassle, really.” Louis admits, causing a cold laugh in agreement from Harry.

“An understatement.” Harry says darkly, folding his arms and heaving a sigh. Leaving Modest is one thing – leaving _Simon_ and announcing their secret relationship (effectively coming out in the process) is on a whole new level of difficult. Louis can picture the expression on the man’s face now, knows none of this will be pretty. It is what it is, though, and Louis can’t imagine another year in the grips of secrecy and entrapment.

“D’you remember how they reacted when we’d ask for the day off on our birthdays?” Louis decides to ask, detracting a little.

“A year in advance, and still the look on their faces,” Niall offers, a breathy, almost icy laugh escaping him, “If looks could kill, I swear to God.”

“Exactly.” Louis nods, his lips pursed at the very thought. There’s so much to be bitter about when it comes to their treatment – the trivial things like working on his birthday or missing a family event, or just being so damned tired all the time from never getting a break. He tries not to think about the deeper things, like the way he’d cry himself to sleep in that first year because he wasn’t the kind of boy they wanted him to be, or coming home after a meeting with Simon; feeling sick to his stomach and having to look the love of his life in the eyes and tell him everything would be fine. Worse, that it wasn’t from that day forward – never truly would be for years – the whole while Louis was made to feel guilty, not knowing whether the whole fame thing was worth losing himself along the way.

There’s so much to be bitter about, but Louis knows the only way forward is to get out with the least amount of casualties possible.

“Management have always made it very…” Harry pauses, eyes going glassy before cynically smiling, “Very _clear_ what would happen to me and Lou if we were to date,” He clears the lump in his throat and Louis almost wants to squeeze his hand in reassurance, feeling the furious beat of Harry’s heart in his pulse as if it was his own, “So all of this has to be kept completely quiet. If they find out we’re a couple – I don’t even know what they’ll do.”

“Definitely. We understand that, mate.” Liam affirms with a nod, looking dedicated to his promise. He looks almost pained, too, as if he wishes he could rewind time and defend them – _intervene_ , even. That’s just the kind of person he is, Louis thinks, the kind that’ll be loyal to the very end.

“I can’t believe them,” Niall says, no longer biting his nails but standing with a defiant air, “I knew they were bad, sure, but…” he trails off, shaking his head with disgust.

“Yeah, well,” Louis huffs, “They haven’t exactly treated you lot like royalty the past five years either – what about your fucking knee?”

“Completely mental with that, they were.” Liam agrees, turning to Niall with a concerned expression.

“It’s about time we got ourselves a good team,” Niall states firmly, “People who are actually on our side.”

“As opposed to the side of the devil himself.” Louis mutters, folding his arms and shuffling slightly on the spot.

“A bit harsh; Simon’s not that bad.” Harry frowns, his tone convincingly earnest, until his smirk gives him away.  

“ _Ha-ha_.” Louis drawls, not hiding his amusement very well.

“Well, how’d Zayn do it?” Niall asks, looking a little unnerved about bringing him up for the first time in months. Since the first time Louis snapped at them all for it.

“Do what?” Liam frowns.

“Well, he left, didn’t he? Broke a binding contract and everythin’.” Niall arches an eyebrow, as if impressed by Zayn’s gumption, “Must have had a pretty good game plan to do that.”

“Thing is, I’m not sure he did,” Liam says in a light tone, looking off in thought, “He just… left.” If there’s a hint of sadness there, Liam masks it well. And if Louis has time to think about it long enough, he’s sure he’d be able to detect it – in the twitch of his mouth and the vacancy behind his expression. It’s gone, though – replaced with a shrug and a warm refocusing of his deep hazel eyes.

Louis sucks in his cheeks, mulling over the words like fine wine. There’s a lot of reasons he’ll never forgive Zayn for leaving, and the one he’s found festering in the healing wound has everything to do with jealousy. How is it that Zayn can flee, in the middle of tour, and never look back? How is it he can shred the promises of his contract like paper, fluttering out in decimated remains on an office floor while Louis and Harry aren’t even free to love one another? For years, Louis has been bent and broken for management, done everything he could to keep that sparkle in Simon’s eye, preferring that to the consequences of getting on his superior’s bad side. For years he’s compromised his own happiness, just to keep out of the line of fire. And Zayn can leave in the time it takes for a person to blink, no questions asked, no turning back? It makes Louis sick.

“We obviously don’t have the luxury of doing what Zayn did,” Harry supplies curtly, drawing Louis out of his thoughts and back to the dressing room, “We walk out as a band and we’ll have a lawsuit on our hands. But we have options.”

After that, the four of them spend a tireless hour throwing ideas around the room. It’s like a writer’s workshop, only the significance of their words feels heavy with the future that rides on them.

Louis slouches against the couch, head resting on Harry’s shoulder; Liam’s shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets comfortably sat in the adjacent chair, whilst Niall’s feet dodge the mug that sits precariously on the edge coffee table, kicking back with a sigh.

“Just feel like…” Niall offers after a short silence, “We need to slow down a bit.”

Louis lifts his head up, still half leaning against Harry’s side before giving Niall a quizzical look and asking, “What – like a break?”

Niall gives a noncommittal shrug, taking his legs off the table and drawing them close to the couch.

“Sounds intense when you put it like that, but yeah.”

“Been thinking the same thing myself, actually,” Liam perks up, straightening his posture and looking between Niall, Louis, and Harry, “We’ve been working ‘round the clock for five years now… and, I mean, if we can figure out a way to leave Modest behind, then… well, what’d be stopping us from taking a bit of a break? Having some time to ourselves?” He pauses before adding, “Gonna be a bit hectic when you two come out, as well. Bet it’d be good to get away.”

Louis would be lying if he said the thought hasn’t crossed his mind or that it didn’t appeal to him. Sometimes there are afternoons where all he does is daydream of being able to turn his back on the limelight and be with Harry, just Harry – no paparazzi, no screaming fans, no pressing obligations at every turn.

“I mean, we’ve got a record,” Niall shrugs, leaning back against the couch, “Least, we will do by the end of the year. We could just put it out and go away for a bit…”

Harry picks up what he’s putting down and thoughtfully offers, “Just let the fans reflect on it.” He turns his head to Louis, who waits intently. “Wouldn’t even really need to be this whole big hiatus thing. Still an album, just no tour. Come back in a year or two when we’re ready just like before.”

“I like that, actually,” Louis remarks thoughtfully, “Like a whole new chapter for us. A fresh start.”

“That way, we’ll have time to rebrand,” Harry observes, the rest of them murmuring in agreement. “Obviously the point is to have a break. Relax and whatever… but it'll mean finding a way to remove ourselves from Modest’s image completely.” Sometimes when Harry talks so eloquently about business, Louis thinks he could jump him right there. He won't, of course.

Niall lets out a nervous huff of air, running his hands up the length of his jeans before pointedly looking between the three band mates and stating, “So we’re really going to do it, then? We’re gonna ditch Modest?”

“That's the plan, anyway.” Liam answers.

“What’d we call it then? The,” He draws air quotes then, “‘Hiatus’? So that people won’t make a big fuss over it?” Niall asks with knitted brows, looking every bit the concerned Irishman that he is.

“A break.” Louis voices matter-of-factly.

“Everyone is going to think we’re breaking up,” Niall notes.

“The papers will love that!” Louis responds with a sarcastic cheerfulness. It makes Harry's frown melt away to a light, eye crinkled smile.

“Everyone always has something to say about us, and they’re usually wrong. All that matters is that we know what it is. That the _fans_ know what it is.” Harry states wisely.

“A well earned rest.” Liam answers with a nod.

They’ve barely scratched the surface – of what is expected of them, of what it’ll mean for their music and the fans and the fact that every decision made from here on out must be made precisely and delicately. It’s daunting, really, if Louis is honest. They’ve been with Modest since the very beginning, so it feels a little like diving into the deep end by even considering leaving them behind. He hadn’t realised how emotionally taxing all of this could be until they really sat down and went through it all. Now all he wants to do is sidle up to Harry in bed and watch a bit of telly. Maybe text his mum that he loves her, ask Lottie how things with Tommy are going, talk to Phoebe about school. Things that relax him. Things that make him happy.

“Exactly,” Niall concludes, “Fuck me, this is gonna be interesting.” He laughs nervously, setting off a chain reaction of weary chuckles from the lot of them.

# …

It’s a Friday afternoon when Louis is struck with the great idea, a grin pulling mischievously at his lips. He doesn’t have to say anything for Harry to catch on, almost as if a visible light bulb brightens above his head. The North American Tour ended mere days ago and they’ve been looking for something to celebrate the break. Louis thinks he’s got just the thing.

“I know that look,” Harry says, narrowing his eyes in calculated observation, “What are you thinking?”

# …

“And you’re sure we’ll be safe here?” Louis asks for the third time that car ride, rubbing his hands nervously up and down his thighs. Harry’s hand stops his frantic gesture, squeezing gently in reassurance.

“Positive,” Harry promises, “I come here often, it’s very respectful of people’s privacy. Hardly anything gets out.” He watches Louis a few seconds longer, their hands entwined, before looking out the window at the passing cars. It’s a wonder they’re even getting anywhere so quickly – Manhattan comes to life the moment the sun goes down, and there’s a reason so many New Yorkers don’t have cars. Louis guesses their driver must just know his way around well, though, because the jolts in traffic seem to be few and far between, “I brought Kendall here once, it’s lots of fun. Paps only showed up because her manager called them.”

Louis lets out an indulgent snort, which has Harry’s head turning back to him with a coy smile.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks, amusement already perking up his features.

“You’re terrible at this straight thing,” Louis snorts, shaking his head, “You go clubbing with a hot girl – okay, seems ‘ladies man’ enough,” he allows with a shrug, “Where do you take her, though? A _gay bar._ ”

“Worked at the time.”

“To be fair, though, you don’t have to do much for everyone to call you a womaniser. I read an article the other day that said you were having an affair with Jeff’s wife because you were pictured havin’ lunch.”

Harry lets out a bark of laughter, waiting until it subsides before he responds, “I think I’ve had affairs with many people’s wives according to _the Sun_.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Louis scoffs, smirking across at his boyfriend playfully. He’s struck very suddenly and unnervingly with the unpleasant thought of Harry with somebody else – a _real_ love affair, or even just a lustful one. It’s something he can’t just shake, and with a dry gulp he finds himself too curious to keep it to himself. “Have you ever… met someone here?” he asks uneasily.

“What? Yeah, I meet loads of great people, s’why I like New York so much, why I _like this club_ so much. Everyone’s surprisingly friendly.”

“No – I mean–” he laughs sheepishly. They’ve talked countless times about their relationship history aside from one another, but never about this specifically. Louis can’t bite back the curiosity now that it's on his mind, “Did you ever _meet someone_.”

“Oh.” Harry’s expression turns serious, frown lines etching into his forehead, “No, not really.”

“S’alright if you had.”

“Well, I mean, there were like…” Harry shifts uncomfortably, his fingers pulling on his lower lip before his hand drops in his lap altogether with a sigh, “ _Hook ups,_ I guess you could call them.”

Louis nods vacantly, trying his hardest to remain collected. The idea of Harry with anyone else – although completely fair and realistic – makes the blood curdle in his veins. It’s not as if he’s not guessed as much before, not as if he’s naïve enough to think he’s the only one who’s touched Harry like that. Doesn’t stop the instinctual jealous squirm in his gut, though, no matter how hard he tells himself it’s irrational.

“Sounds a bit… _lame_ or whatever, but,” Harry looks down at his hands, twisting the turquoise ring between his fingers in what Louis always considered a subconscious habit, though now it feels a lot more like a nervous twitch, “I wasn’t ever really focused on dating for a while, there.”

In the time it takes for Louis to sigh, he feels consumed by one thing: _understanding._ As cliché as it sounds, the prospect of dating had never been on his mind after he lost Harry. It’s heartbreaking to know Harry felt the same, that in all that time of mutual longing and pain they could have just… _fixed_ it. But Louis has been learning not to dwell on those finer details, not when he has nothing to complain about now.

“I know what you mean.” He says quietly.

Harry’s chewing the side of his lip, looking very vulnerable, before throwing caution to the wind and asking, “I don’t suppose… you ever…”

“Pretty much the same for me, yeah,” Louis answers stiffly, because thinking of it now makes his hair stand on end, “Wasn’t ever much… time to really do any of that. I had, y’know, the whole Eleanor thing… happening…” he trails off, wondering if she feels as free as he does now. Maybe he should get in touch, show her there’s a Louis Tomlinson who is bright and happy now, that there’s a version of him who, where there was a vacant stare, there’s now a twinkle again. He knows she’d be happy to see it. “Seemed a bit more trouble than it was worth, to be honest.”  

There’s been others, of course there has. He means what he says, though; the whole thing had just never felt worth it. Not when the boys who gave him looks across the room had boring brown eyes, not when their tattoos were generic, not when their hair was short and uninspiring. They weren’t Harry. And no amount of drunken Stan encouragements, liquid courage, or blasting music could convince Louis for long enough that he could find happiness in someone else’s’ lips. They weren’t Harry’s. So what had been the point? Thus, the occasional drunken hook up in dimly-lit bars never amounted to anything. He doesn’t regret them – it’s just the way it is.

“Besides,” he shrugs, turning away from Harry’s gaze now, a little overcome with what he’s about to say, “I guess I never really... gave up on us.”

Harry’s warm, engulfing hand resting on his thigh draws his eyes back to a soft dimpled smile.  

“Me neither.” Harry affirms deeply.

“Look at us, hopeless romantics.” Louis teases self deprecatingly, squeezing Harry’s hand on his leg.

“Worked out in the end, though.”

Louis dares a peak out his window, spotting the pride flag flapping gently in the night air atop _Therapy_ night club’s front entrance. It’s a humble sort of building, plain brick sandwiched between apartments and shops. He’s been to bars a lot less inconspicuous than this, ones with neon signs labelled ‘GAY’, ones where the bricks are individually coloured to make a rainbow wall. He’s never been to those with Harry, though. The feeling in his stomach is excitement, he’s sure of it, but there’s a part of him that’s petrified, too.

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick.” He admits, still staring at the glass.

Harry laughs softly, his thumb caressing the back of Louis’ hand in his.

“It was your idea.” He points out.

“So? Doesn’t mean I’m not shitting myself.”

“Don’t shit your pants, please,” Harry says calmly and Louis laughs, making the collected expression on his face fall away to a grin, “We’re going to have a lot fun.”

“You’re right. I _know_ you’re right.” Louis almost whines at his own silliness, “Guess there’s no point buggering about, is there?” he adds, the car at a standstill outside the club.

“Nope.” Harry grins.

The first thing Louis notices when they enter the bar, is how packed it already is. There’s so many people here that he’s sure that once they’ve passed the doorway and filtered into the crowd, no one will even notice them let alone recognise them as Louis and Harry of One Direction.

Actually, they discover pretty quickly that there are a few other A Listers – ones Harry raises his eyebrows to as they find a place by the bar and order their drinks. It’s loud; country and pop interchangeably blasting through the sound system, and every space is filled with sweating, drunken bodies. Louis wonders absentmindedly if the DJ is the kind who’ll play one of their songs, and hopes not to face that embarrassment any time soon.

“C’mon, saw that one coming a mile away.” Louis proclaims smugly in reference to a particularly surprisingly patron.

“S’not a competition, Lou.” Harry rolls his eyes, leaning against the bar top with a casual elegance that sets Louis’ heart aflutter.

“Not one you’re winning at anyway.” Louis mutters into his drink, sipping with an exaggerated innocence etched in his features. He’s determined to let his hair down tonight and celebrate with as much gusto as possible. He hasn’t been out clubbing in months, and with the strain of tour lifted for a short while, he’s going to make the most of it. That’s probably why he’s finished his beer in minutes and is ordering tequila shots for them before Harry can even protest.

He does groan, though, when the shot is presented to him by a pleasant smiling bartender. It makes Louis bark in laughter, before raising his own tiny glass to click against Harry’s reluctantly lifted one.

“I’m blaming you if I vomit.” Harry warns, bringing the shot to his lips in a hesitant movement.

“You _always_ vomit, even just from champagne, for Christ’s sake.” Louis replies, tilting his head back in a quick tug, the content of his glass rolling down the back of his throat with a sizzling burn. He winces, shakes his head, and grins, “Go big or go home, I say.”

Harry considers Louis’ words, his face turning from sceptical to approving and, with a shrug, he downs the tequila shot.   

Drinks in hand, the pair head upstairs where Harry claims the view of New York city from the balcony is ‘breathtaking’, despite Louis’ childish snort at the cheesy line. Their beeline to the other end of the room from the stairwell is interrupted by the end of a drag performance they didn’t even know was happening.

“What is this place? Fuckin’ Narnia or somethin’?” Louis remarks, staring at the performers belting the lyrics to _Whatta Man_ by Salt ‘N Pepa. He gapes back at them as the song draws to a close, blindly following Harry across the room onto the terrace. It’s so loud he can’t imagine how they didn’t know it was going on from downstairs.

“Thick walls.” Harry explains with a knowing nod back at Louis before turning ahead again.

Louis lets out an incredulous laugh, eyeing the drag queens’ gyrating movements and insanely bold makeup. It certainly isn’t his thing – at least, he’d never pull it off – but he admires their passion and easily sees himself enjoying a whole show next time he and Harry visit NYC.

“Carmen Getit.” Harry states, watching as the performers thank everyone for being such an enthusiastic audience. A slow smirk pulls at his lips, as he leans back against the railing, “I like that one. S’clever.”

“What would your drag name be?” Louis asks then, feeling the cool biting breeze against his flushed cheeks, tipsy enough that he’s not shivering at all. In fact, he’s pretty comfortable temperature wise, so that must mean he’s a bit tipsier than he’d like to admit.

“Mine?” Harry’s eyebrow quirks, and he stands a little straighter in contemplation, “Not sure I’d be a very good drag queen.” He pouts, looking off at the skyline.

“You’re kidding.” Louis’ mind immediately goes there – picturing Harry in full drag, prancing around on stage belting _Walk Like a Man_ by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons with great gusto. It says a lot, how easily he can imagine it.

“M’not.”

“Come on, H,” Louis feigns exasperation, which makes Harry giggle into his drink, “You’d own it, don’t deny it.”

“Okay, let me think.” Harry decides, dimply grin on full display. Even in the dim light of the club he seems to glow when he smiles like that.

“Take your time. It’s a very serious decision.”

After a short silence, Harry eyes him with a lopsided, sly smirk, and it reminds Louis of when he’s concocting some sort of mischievous plan. He stands to his full height, looking very smug while Louis watches skeptically.

“Dixie Normous.” Harry states matter-of-factly.

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis cusses in disbelief, “That’s actually a good one.”

“S’cause it’s true.” Harry says through a smirk, wiggling his eyes suggestively at the incredulous Louis.

“How are you already pissed?” Louis asks, his voice rising in indignation – trying to detract from how embarrassingly heated he’s getting under his collar at Harry’s – for want of a better word – cockiness.

“It’s a talent of mine.”

“Well, I wish you’d share your secrets, m’barely half tipsy on this stuff.” He raises his fruity Mojito, which he’s starting to think is more strawberries and mint than it is alcohol. He’s exaggerating, though, because he’s definitely more than tipsy off the tequila shots and the couple rounds of Stella Artois from earlier.

Harry shoves his Smirnoff Ice into Louis’ personal space, his face remaining completely neutral. Louis frowns in response, finally taking the bottle in his free hand when Harry nudges his chest with it impatiently.

“I’ll give you a kiss if you can finish that in ten seconds.” Harry dares with a curt nod in gesture to the drink.

“Ten seconds?” Louis looks down at it; it’s got to be at least half full, though Louis bets Harry’s only taken two or three swigs. For an amateur, or someone with a delicate stomach, it might be an actual trial. Not for Louis though.

“Ten seconds.” Harry nods.

“Love, that’s hardly even a challenge.” Louis says in a patronising tone that makes Harry laugh.

“Go on then.” Harry counters, his eyebrows raised.   

Louis hands him his glass in response, watching Harry take it as his mouth gapes all fish-like, searching with his tongue for the straw before sucking a gulp of Louis’ fruity beverage. He seems to approve of Louis’ order choice, sighing out an ‘ah’ sound in satisfaction.

“Ready?” Louis asks with a smile at Harry, who nods eagerly in response.

As it turns out, he severely underestimates the task at hand. Louis does not account for the fizz in his throat on the way down, which is a huge oversight, he realises, considering how many of the drinks he’s had tonight that were carbonated.

Instead of the triumphant gloating of finishing the bottle in half the challenged time like he pictures, the scene goes more like this: Louis almost choking on the content of the bottle, coughing and spluttering it out of his mouth and nose, quickly trying to contain it in his hands. Harry holds in his laughter for a grand total of three seconds, pushed over the edge into fits of guffaws by the last dribbles of Smirnoff Ice that run down Louis’ chin. He quite literally bursts into giggles, watching Louis with an expression that combines guilt and complete amusement. It probably should be the most obnoxious thing Louis has ever bore witness to; the way Harry points at his soaked t-shirt and cackles uncontrollably. Yet Louis just stands there, completely frozen with his arms still raised and drink foaming over the edges and onto his hand, finding it near impossible not to laugh himself.

“Rigged!” Louis announces, watching Harry in stitches and huffing out the next remark in a laugh, “Completely rigged!” He’s not even sure if Harry can hear him – over the thumping base of the music and loudly chatting people, but mostly over his own raucous laughter. “You shook it up! You shook it up, didn’t you, you little shit!”

It’s a full minute (Louis almost counts it in his head) before Harry’s laughter subsides some. It doesn’t help that Louis is grinning stupidly at him, so every time they make eye contact and Harry bears witness, yet again, to the drenched appearance of his boyfriend, he starts giggling once more. Finally, with his hands leaning into his bent knees and head bowed, Harry calms himself enough to straighten up.

“And I really wanted that kiss, too.” Louis states with a saddened expression, searching around him before resorting to placing the empty sticky bottle on the floor beside the railing.

“S’too bad.” Harry responds, trying not to snort.   

“Now,” Louis begins with a confident wipe of his wet hands on his shirt, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make myself look mildly presentable.”

“The bathroom’s over there.” Harry directs Louis with his pointer finger, his hand at his mouth trying to shield his grin.

It’s not until he’s spent several minutes dabbing his shirt dry with a paper towel and then tugging it up under the hand dryer, that Louis starts to admit just how quickly Harry’s Smirnoff Ice is going to his head. His shirt is completely dry (bar the slight sticky residue staining his collar) and it’s with a sturdy grip on either side of the hand basin that Louis stares at himself in the mirror. He’s done this many a time over the years – at clubs, at people’s houses, at work events – escaped to the bathroom to see just how sober he really is. It turns out in the quiet of his own thoughts and flushed features staring back at him, that he’s a little drunk. More than, even.

When the cubicle door opens behind him, Louis flinches in surprise. He bows his head the instant his brain registers it’s a stranger – another patron, someone who might realise a member of the biggest boy band in the world is currently drunk in a gay bar. Louis stares down at the sink, feeling the person walk up behind him to the empty basin and douse his hands in soap and cold water. All Louis can do is silently wish that the room wasn’t so starkly lit, so he could fade into the shadows like he’d done back out on the dance floor.

The whole ordeal lasts barely seconds before the man is wiping his hands and heading for the door. Louis glances up at the mirror a second too soon, meeting eyes with the stranger in the reflection. His chest constricts for a millisecond, an instinctive tight greeting smile pulling at his lips. The guy is young – definitely younger than Louis ever was before he went to a gay club – and it makes him wonder if he needed a fake I.D. to get into this place. He’s just a regular, flamboyant young man. A _gay_ man. Just like Louis.

Louis doesn’t even have time to pretend to be doing something else before there’s a swing of the door and he’s alone again. All that heart racing and pulse quickening for nothing. He’s not sure whether to feel relief that he didn’t get recognised, or shame for thinking he’s somehow going to be on anyone’s radar here. Because if he’s being honest with himself, it’s places like this that not just closeted celebrities visit to escape and be themselves.

He lets out a sigh, staring at himself once more. The reflection, although disheveled in parts – hair sticking up and beard scruff a little more overgrown than he likes it – has an undeniable joy written upon it. Because as hard as it is to grasp, no one here cares who he is. No one cares that he’s spilt vodka all over his front, or that he needs a shave, or that in a few minutes he’ll go back out there and kiss Harry Styles in the middle of the crowded bar. For once, Louis is where he belongs – in a place that celebrates difference, and just doesn’t give a fuck.

So yeah, he’s going to go back out there and dance and make dick jokes and kiss his fucking boyfriend just like every other gay guy in this club. The feeling is liberating, and he leaves the toilet feeling giddily light from the load of anxiety he left running down the drain.

“C’mon, let’s have a dance.” Louis announces with a rub of his palms together and a bounce in his step to the beat of Justin Timberlake’s _SexyBack_ sounding in the speakers. He nods his head with enthusiasm at the statuesque Harry, too immersed in the catchy tune to totally register how poised his drunken boyfriend is. "Wait a second, did you drink the rest of my mojito?!” He exclaims indignantly, glowering at the very empty-handed Harry.

The chagrined expression staring back is all the answer he needs, letting out a huff and mumbling, “S'pose you’re gonna pass out before the night’s even started…”

Harry simply responds with a pout, folding his arms and sighing, “I had a whole move planned, dickhead!”

“A move?” Louis asks incredulously.

“You know,” Harry says with an almost bashful defensiveness, “I was trying to pull you.”

“You _what?_ ” Louis asks with a drunken scoff, “You’ve already got me!”

The innocent remark brings an adoring smile to Harry’s lips, but he quickly wipes it away with a stretch of his jaw and a clearing of his throat. He puts his hand up against the corner of the wall, effectively blocking Louis’ way to the club, so that he can’t get out of the hallway off from the bathroom.

“I don’t mean to be forward,” Harry says in a deep, almost sensual tone as he leans casually against the wall, “But have we met before? You look familiar.”

Louis feels almost stupid for taking so long to pick up what Harry’s putting down (though it _is_ his fault; that Smirnoff Ice will be his demise) and he lets out an audible noise of sudden realisation. Harry’s expression doesn’t falter and he blinks slowly and expectantly down at Louis.

“I don’t think so,” Louis says then, his voice high and a faux frown knitting his brows. He changes his body language, leaning into Harry’s space and adding, “I definitely would have remembered your face if we had.”

“Shame…”

“Is it?” Louis asks, an eyebrow quirked and expression playfully smug.

“It is,” Harry answers, licking his bottom lip in the way he knows Louis likes. He’s _teasing,_ the bastard. Before Louis can call him out on it, Harry leans in, effectively stunning him into silence. “You look very much like someone I’d like to know.” He says, low and flirtatious. His lips barely trace Louis’ ear, but it’s enough to send shivers down his spine and make him feel dizzy all over.

“Well,” Louis responds, his voice slightly shaky and drawn out, “We could do somethin’ about that…”

“Mhm?” Harry returns to his fullest height, and Louis finds himself missing the intimacy of his whisper.

“You could get to know me.”

Harry’s charming resolve immediately falls away; perhaps it’s in the way Louis smirks all playful and young or it’s because he’s too drunk to concentrate on their little game. Or maybe it’s because he _has_ gotten to know Louis - in every way that you can know a person, from how he ties his shoes, to the lack of sugar in his tea. No one knows Louis like Harry, and it's so endearingly laughable to be standing here in a club flirting about the exact opposite. Regardless of the reason, Harry can’t keep up the act at all, and he beams down at Louis with such dimpled delight that the swooping feeling in Louis’ chest at the sight is almost as intoxicating as the alcohol in his system.

“Can I have this dance?” Harry finally asks, his voice raised at the end in hopeful bashfulness.

Louis tilts his head, listening out for the song, indecipherable over the electric ambiance of the club. _SexyBack_ is transitioning into something else, and the second he realises what it is he lets out a laugh.

“This one?” he asks incredulously, Taylor Swift’s voice ringing in his ears, “ _Really?_ ”  He watches Harry’s expression turn to that of deep concentration, staring at nothing as he tries to listen closely. Louis knows the moment Harry realises it’s _Shake It Off_ , because he slowly closes his eyes and hangs his head in embarrassment.

“I’m never coming here again.” Harry decides wearily, pulling his hair out of his face and looking grimly back up at Louis, who cackles loudly. “I’m going to have to complain to the manager.” He adds sombrely, trying not to crack a smile at Louis’ laughter – he lasts barely seconds before he’s laughing himself.

“Please.” Louis mumbles through wheezes, shaking his head.

“Just dance with me, Lou.” Harry says as he reaches for Louis’ hand, tugging gently.

“As if I’d want anything else.” Louis grasps back, lacing their fingers together in a way that feels as exhilarating as the first time. He remembers it so perfectly – all those years ago when they were just kids in the X Factor doing what felt natural. Holding Harry’s hand has always felt natural, Louis realises. It’s only now that he can show the world what he’s been feeling inside.

“Can you hear that?” Harry yells, craning his neck down to speak to Louis over the thumping music. The crowd is dense and Louis keeps bumping into Harry whenever someone’s a little overzealous with their dance moves. “The saxophone? The _trumpets?_ ” He shouts, hands raised in the air in gesture to the song. He nods his head appreciatively to the beat of the instrumental during the chorus, Taylor belting about heart breakers and fakers and shaking it off. “That’s what I call _good_ music. Genius!”

Louis snorts. “Let it go, Haz! It’s not gonna happen!” He shouts back, bopping his head softly and eyeing a particularly enthusiastic girl leaping up and down and yelling the lyrics. He has to admit, it’s a catchy tune.

“I can dream!” Harry laughs back, grinning wide in a way that makes Louis’ heart swell with love. His expression shifts almost instantly, deep frown lines appearing as if concentrating all his drunken might on the music now, “‘ _But I keep cruisin’_ …’”

Louis shakes his head, knowing exactly where this is going. Drunk Harry can get very enthusiastic about these things, even if it involves a Taylor Swift hit.

“The media would have a field day with this,” Louis groans, though he can’t keep the grin at bay.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know the lyrics.” Harry teases, tugging gently at Louis’ shirt to bring him closer. Louis obliges, smirking up at his ridiculous boyfriend. “‘ _It’s like I got this music…_ ’”

Louis begrudgingly huffs, silent as Harry smirks down at him until he shouts back, “‘ _Sayin’ it’s gonna be alright!’_ ” Before he knows it, or has any sober rationale to stop it, he’s belting the chorus along with an enthusiastic Harry and loving every second of it. Who would have thought.

“What year is it?” Louis shouts when the song transitions again. 2001 apparently, he thinks, laughing at the horrified expression on Harry’s face.

“Destiny’s Child is timeless!” Harry counters, closing his eyes and moving his arms all gangly to the beat, as if _Survivor_ really moves him to his core. Knowing Harry, it probably actually does.

If Louis thought they were energised before, it’s nothing compared to the sheer eruption of excitement when the next song comes on. The moment the cheesy synthetic instrumental blasts, Harry’s eyes light up and his mouth widens in surprise, and if it isn’t the most adorable thing Louis has ever seen, then he doesn’t know what is.

“It’s–” Harry begins eagerly, hands waving.

“WHITNEY!” Louis shouts back, nodding his head furiously.

“This is our song! _This is our song!_ ” Harry yells, as if Louis isn’t already completely aware. Memories flood Louis’ alcohol-addled brain – iHeartRadio on Saturday mornings, messy kitchen counter tops, a curly haired boy taking his hand, laughing, always laughing. They danced to this song years ago, at first as a joke, but like everything with Louis and Harry, it settled into something more. Back then the 80’s classic was more than a little cheesy for two teenage boys, and Louis guesses that part hasn’t changed. Still, it’d been one of those intimate moments of theirs, building and boiling under the surface of every friendly interaction.

“I remember!” Louis calls back, realising he hasn’t stopped nodding his head, he’s that excited. It’s not as if the song is particularly special for any noteworthy reason – they didn’t kiss to it or confess unwavering feelings or anything like what _should_ make it special, anyway. It was just Harry and Louis, kids falling for each other without even realising it, to the soundtrack of _I Wanna Dance With Somebody_. Louis supposes, upon reflection, that every little part of that time in his life at the start of the band has a significance he won’t ever be able to comprehend. It’s just a song, intrinsically tied to Harry – like everything else is.

Whitney Houston’s voice stuns them into silence, with her breathy ‘hey yeah’s and ‘uhuh’s building to the first lines. Louis thinks of Harry’s goofy grin the time they found an old Whitney record on a day out in a second hand shop in Seattle. He’d held up the fresh faced Whitney Houston smiling back at them with a blue sky backdrop and Louis bought it for him on the spot. They didn’t even have a record player, and by the time Harry got one the following Christmas, Louis had already moved out. Still, he’d gotten the text from Harry telling him how good it sounded on vinyl compared to the dodgy YouTube lyric videos they’d been listening to before.

It’s been years since Louis has heard this song, but the moment the chorus hits, he knows the words as confidently as the tour track list.

> _Oh, I wanna dance with somebody_
> 
> _I wanna feel the heat with somebody_
> 
> _Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody_
> 
> _With somebody who loves me!_

He spends a majority of the time beaming more than he sings – at Harry, who’s effeminate drunken dance moves are as silly as they are endearing. There’s not a lot of space afforded for Harry to be dancing the way he is, but no one seems to mind, it’s all a part of the clubbing experience. Louis swears there must be one or two eyes upon them, but he never actually catches any of them in the act, and figures with the place as plastered as he is, there’s really no foundation in his scepticism. He makes eye contact with two girls dancing and miming to the song and all three of them bop their heads, jiving and leaping in shared delight. When Louis’ attention returns to Harry, it’s in time to see pop star Harry Styles take over, making Louis amazed at how this cute, gay, drunken mess can turn into a cool, sexy performer.

Louis thinks, rather spontaneously, of Harry’s tattooed ankles – _never gonna dance again_ – amused and affronted by the very idea of Harry depriving the world of his infectiously beautiful dancing. Louis loved the way Harry would dance when they were new friends, all jerky and no rhythm, and he loves the way he dances now – a nostalgic trace of that boy still here, all grown up into a tall and devastatingly beautiful version of himself. If Louis were as into Pokémon as he was as a teenager, he’d even call this Harry’s evolution.

 _I need a man who’ll take a chance_ echoes around the two of them, Harry singing along and pointing at Louis, refusing to break eye contact despite the bashfulness that takes over Louis’ features. _On a love that burns hot enough to last,_ and a pump of the air with his fist and that cocky grin Louis is a slave to.

Louis holds out for as long as he can, until Harry grabs his own crotch while growling _I wanna feel the HEAT with somebody_ , and then it becomes too hard with _that_ image in his brain not to be as close to his boyfriend as possible. It’s not even the end of the song, but Louis can hardly help himself, tugging at Harry’s waist to pull him closer. Harry lets Louis willingly lead him into his personal space, wrapping his arms around Louis’ neck and grinning ear to ear.

“I love you.” Louis tries to whisper and yell into Harry’s ear.

“Can’t hear you!” Harry shouts back.

“ _I said,_ ” Louis speaks up, “I love you!”

Harry’s face lights up in recognition, tightening his arms around Louis and smiling brighter than the club lights ever could.

“I love you, too!”

“No, really!” Louis shouts adamantly, frowning seriously up at green eyes and wavy hair and everything that is his whole world. “I fucking love you so much.”

He expects Harry to laugh at that, to roll his eyes and wax lyrical about how _of course you do, I know you do_. He surprises Louis, though – the smile turning serious and eyes glistening. He thinks he might’ve done something wrong for split second – Lord knows what, especially with his brain as muddled as it is right now.

“I fucking love you so much, too.” Harry gushes. No, absolutely nothing wrong at all.

Louis and Harry have had many first kisses. There’s the very first, which will always be a milestone in their history between friendship and something else. Louis remembers getting a black marker and circling the date in his calendar, which hadn’t been doing much except collecting dust since being gifted by his grandmother for his birthday the year before. Suddenly it seemed like the most important item in his room, the little box labelled August 24th, 2011 highlighted over and over with enthusiasm.

There’s the first drunken kiss, months on from that, hands entwined and champagne laughter. With a very important countdown to midnight, Harry and Louis kissed into the next year. There’s the first time with tongue, and the first time backstage between curtains or in dressing rooms. There’s the first teary kiss, the happy kind and then later, much later, the painful kind. There’s the first last kiss, the one that left Louis empty and half himself for years after. There’s the first kiss after I love you, when everything felt new and magical and Louis could conquer the world with that single feeling. So many firsts. This is another of them.

They’ve never really been conventional, after all. Louis wouldn’t have it any other way.

Louis’ heartbeat is thudding ridiculously, a wave of adrenaline rushing through him. Maybe it’s the alcohol flooding straight into his veins, but it feels like the first time again, all daunting and exciting. He knows why, because there’s so many people – strangers – that they’re putting their faith and trust into right now, but he’s so drunk and he wants Harry _so badly_ and doesn’t he deserve a regular love story? One without secrets and hiding and shame? He definitely thinks so.

With an extra little tug at the back of Harry’s neck, Louis brings their faces impossibly close. Harry does the rest, mouths colliding in drunken enthusiasm. Kissing like this in the middle of the club, completely pissed and utterly over the moon, Louis is sure it could be the sloppiest kiss and he’d still love it. As it were, it is a little wet and hot, perhaps a bit ill-coordinated, too. In fact, Louis reckons he’ll tease Harry in the morning about what a dreadful drunk kisser he is. He could do it all night though, exhilarated by the fact that they’re doing this right here in front of everyone.

They make a complete mess of it, really – hands clinging to each other for support, lips locked in a scene that could be described as a ‘passionate embrace’ were Louis to write a novel about it. He could probably do that, too – write about it – because he’s sure it’s going to be the inspiration for his music for a long time. He lets his hands slide down Harry’s front, all the way down to his hips, gripping firmly. Harry tastes wet and bitter with tequila and something uniquely Harry. Somehow it’s the very best of kisses shared between any two people, Louis is certain of it – and the mojito would definitely agree.

Louis isn’t too sure who switches the pace, but it goes from slow and sensual to heated and hungry pretty fast. What he does know, though, is how _good_ it feels – with Harry’s tongue in his mouth and hands on his arse. So good , in fact , that neither of them come up for air for an embarrassing amount of time, like teenagers snogging at a school dance. Although, Louis starts to rethink that analogy with each passing second, because he never kissed anyone this filthily when he was sixteen. In fact, he’s pretty sure teenage Louis had no idea what a French kiss was , let alone how to do it in the middle of a crowded club with the fittest boy and a ridiculously high amount of blood alcohol content , and manage to make said fittest boy groan with how _good_ he apparently is at it. Bullocks. Really puts it into perspective when he thinks about it like that.

It’s hard to pull away, it really is, but as the song transitions to deep bass and sensual pop, Louis just has to do something. It certainly doesn’t help that Harry looks absolutely fucked when he pulls back, or that his hands have found their way to Louis’ waist and remain there. The way his eyes stare Louis down, it’s as if he wants to devour him whole. Louis would like that, he really would. _Not here_ , _though_ , somewhere in the back of his mind he reminds himself. There’s things he can do, however.

Turning on his heels, Louis backs into Harry’s front, grabbing Harry’s wrists which have frozen in the air with confusion and placing them roughly around his waist again. He turns his head enough to see Harry gulp, looking completely stunned. _Good_. Louis doesn’t know the song that’s playing, but it revs him up almost as much as Harry’s fingers digging into his skin the same instant he grinds back against Harry’s crotch. Louis knows exactly what to do, putting on a show for Harry, feeling his body react in eager movements. It’s only fair, after _that_ kiss, for Louis to seek some sort of revenge.

Louis’ hand flies up to Harry’s neck, anchoring in a way that brings Harry’s breath short and warm at Louis’ ear, and then in time kisses along his neck, too. It’s so delicate and incredibly distracting, Louis’ head tipping back a fraction, resting minutely on Harry’s shoulder as his lower half continues to move in sync with Harry and the beat. With every jut back of his hip, he can feel Harry’s crotch react, and when his arse presses just that bit longer and slower, Harry’s breathing becomes incredibly laboured against Louis’ neck.

“You’re so hot,” Harry’s hands are under his shirt now, skin against skin, hot and a little sweaty. “You’re so fucking hot.” Louis lets out a smug sort of laugh, tilting his head back against Harry’s front and continuing to dance into him. Harry is relentless, though, hands warm on Louis’ abdomen, digging tighter with every grinding movement, “ _I mean it_ , you’re the hottest one here. Probably the hottest bloke in any club.”  

“That’s going straight to my pants, thanks.” Louis answers, distracted by how dangerously low Harry’s hands are on his body.

“Good.” He’s trailing lower, making Louis’ breath hitch in the back of his throat.

“Not here,” Louis warns, doing absolutely nothing to stop everything from in fact happening right here, “H _–Harry_ ,” he adds in a whining stammer, “We’re in _public_.” For once he doesn’t mean it in a we-are-famous-closeted-boybanders way, more in a we’re-pretty-much-shagging-on-the-dance-floor-in-front-of-everyone way.

“Okay,” Harry finally says, “So let’s go then.”

Louis doesn’t have to be told twice.

“You’re just as drunk as I am,” Harry slurs adamantly, a smug look plastered on his slightly sweaty face. The sheen of sweat, Louis notes, is entirely a product of his overzealous dance moves – and it’s ridiculously endearing. Just thinking it brings the image of an eye rolling Lottie to the front of his mind, asking ‘how the hell does sweat endear you? God, you’re doomed’ and a ‘he’s in love, Lots, leave him alone’ from Fizzy. “You’re just… a better actor than me.” Harry decides.

Louis doesn't answer, but he watches Harry fumble with the hotel key card, doing nothing to assist and laughing loud enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if their neighbour came into the hall to scold them for making such a ruckus. No one disturbs their little paradise, though; the dark hotel hall devoid of anyone besides the two of them.

After dropping the key card altogether, Harry snorts and attempts to pick it back up. It’s embarrassing how many times he has to lean down before he actually manages to grab hold of it and stand upright again.

“Lou– Lou, look. _Look._ I can’t stand straight.” Harry says determinedly, or at least as determined as a drunk person can be with one eye blinking slower than the other and all sense of balance totally lost. “Get it? _Can’t stand straight,_ ” He repeats for further impact, “S’cause I’m gay!” He waves his hands about theatrically.

“M’gonna marry you for that someday.” Louis answers without conscious thought, letting it hang in the air between them. Harry doesn’t laugh, not even an involuntary drunken giggle. He’s quite silent, actually, and Louis feels like an absolute twat for letting the thought slip right out of his mouth; that is, until the second he’s being swooped up into large, warm arms and kissed senseless. Then he doesn’t think he’s so much of a twat anymore, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and smiling into the kiss, dizzy with love. He means it – the marriage thing – with every fibre of his intoxicated body. He can tell by the way Harry kisses; passionate yet gentle, that he’s aware of that.

Neither of them pay much attention to their surroundings after that; stumbling into the hotel room, Harry pushing himself back against the door to shut it whilst remaining entirely engrossed by Louis. They don’t even make it to the bedroom before Louis is tugging Harry’s shirt off with a swift jerk, throwing it to the floor. He combs his fingers through Harry’s hair, gripping tight at the curls and eliciting a deeper kiss out of him in response.

“Can’t believe we did that,” Louis remarks a little breathlessly between kisses.

“Can’t believe we got _away_ with it.” Harry adds in return, clutching Louis’ bum tightly.

“I know.”

“Kind of hot,” Harry mumbles, his smile incredibly flirtatious – though Louis only sees it for a second, kissing again fervently.

Before Louis can register that they’re both half naked, chests hot and panting against each other, Harry’s pinning him against the living room wall. The gesture is rough and Louis lets out a low huff in the impact, but neither of them slow down – kissing sloppily and hungrily.

Louis wants Harry as close as possible, his thighs tightening with every grinding movement Harry makes and hands clutching at the back of his neck, so fiercely he's sure it'll leave bruises there tomorrow. He’s not really paying attention to anything but the feel of Harry so strong and all encompassing, getting lost in a pleasurable daze the second Harry’s hot mouth begins to suck at his neck. His head tilts back against the wall, but he loses patience pretty quickly, grabbing Harry’s face close and joining their lips again.

It’s clumsy, and messy, totally devoid of technique – all instinct and mindless desire bundled up into hip thrusts and hot kisses and it's exactly what Louis needs right now. It can’t be maintained, not when Louis knows Harry’s strength is reduced by half in his current state, and chances are both of their staminas were abandoned in the drive home.

Louis hands fumble at Harry’s jeans, testing his ability to multitask as Harry’s own explore his chest and their kisses get wetter and dirtier. He manages quite successfully to unbutton and unzip the pants, but with his own thighs stopping the progress, he can’t pull them off. Instead, he opts for a roaming hand down Harry’s crotch, which results in a particularly forceful shove back against the wall and a groan that sends warmth through Louis’ entire body.

None of it is enough; Louis’ hand kneading against Harry’s hip thrusts, feeling the growing hardness beneath his touch. They’re both so eager for it; turned on by the exhilaration of the club, the alcohol in their systems, and each other’s bodies.

Pulling and tugging, Louis underestimates his drunken strength in a way that has comical consequences. One second he’s trapped between the wall and Harry’s heaving chest, and the next he’s tumbling to the floor. Harry doesn’t let go of him the entire way down, falling onto his back with a yelp. Both are completely disorientated, Louis lying across a confused Harry splayed out on the floor.

“Ow.” Louis finally breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Harry slurs, “M’so drunk. I can do it, I really can!” He scrambles under Louis pretty unsuccessfully, attempting to get back up and swoop Louis off his feet in a grand romantic redemption of the current situation. When Louis doesn’t move, a complete dead weight above Harry in fits of stupid laughter, he inevitably gives up with a huff, blowing the curls of hair out of his face.

“I know you can.” Louis says, trying to be as encouraging as he can while laughing quietly into Harry’s chest. Louis can’t even count the amount of times Harry has proved endlessly that he can easily carry him – from bench pressing him in a morning workout to slinging Louis over his shoulder from room to room as punishment for something particularly teasing Louis has said. Nevertheless, Louis can’t keep the laughter at bay – something incredibly hilarious about their sensual and heated moment turning into an embarrassing collapse of epic proportions.

“Just give me a second,” Harry breathes tiredly, patting at Louis’ hair haphazardly, clearly winded. “N’then I’ll be ready to go.” He sounds so adamant – in a weary sort of way – and Louis just has to press a gentle kiss above his butterfly in response. He keeps doing it, soft peppering of lips against tattoos; to the pair of birds, 17BLACK, and in the dip of his collarbone where the year 1967 is inked. Finally, after hearing only Harry’s slightly laboured yet attentive breathing beneath him, Louis finds his way to Harry’s mouth – hovering over and kissing in a languid swoop.

“Let me take care of you…” Louis mutters, breaking the kiss just to move along Harry’s jaw line in soft pecks. He can feel Harry freeze under him, the pulse coming up short and thudding at his throat.

“Really?” His voice comes out quietly, unnecessarily so considering he’d been bellowing in the hallway just minutes ago. Louis looks up through his lashes at that, their eyes meeting in the dark of the living room, and he could be forgiven for forgetting that they’ve not even made it to the bedroom. It’s that look Harry gives him – pupils dilated and lips parted in awe – that makes it clear just how prepared he was to give Louis everything, to take care of him like he always does – with an attentive and loving touch – despite having clearly overexerted himself.

“Of course,” Louis assures, “Let me…” He just wants to kiss Harry soft and with all the emotion he can muster for the way he’s looking up at him. He remembers how nervous he’d been in the car and how Harry had held his hand and promised it would be good, and how exhilarating it felt to kiss him on the dance floor. It’s an odd time to be hit with a wave of self-awareness like that, perhaps, but Louis pushes on. “You’re all tense, I just want to…” He can’t even finish what he’s saying, too caught up in the shakiness of Harry’s breath as his hand wanders low. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the way Harry moves when he touches him, or the sounds he makes. In his drunken bliss he reminds himself he won’t have to go without it for the rest of his life.

“Oh my God,” Harry shuts his eyes – Louis knows because he’s watching his reaction, stopping only to properly pull off Harry’s jeans and pants. “Yeah, okay,” The words come out in breaths, raspy and beautiful.

Eventually, they have to abandon their spot on the floor for the bedroom – where lube, condoms and a soft surface awaits – Louis guiding an eager Harry by the hand. It disrupts their oasis for a fraction of time before they’re totally consumed by each other all over again.

After that Harry is completely lax, pliable to Louis on top of him. At first Louis kisses him with soft precision, but after Harry starts squirming and panting, the kisses turn into one, long and heated lip-lock. Louis could spend an obscene amount of time just kissing Harry – on the lips and then all the way at his inner thigh, leaving hickeys upon the milkiest soft spots and biting at the laurels – a gesture that prompts a particularly loud reply from Harry. But it would just be a cruel sort of injustice to make Harry wait any longer, judging from the way he’s almost begging for it in incoherent babbles. And anyway, Louis is too drunk to hold off much longer as it is.

Feeling Harry’s warmth around his fingers as he works him open is enough to make Louis’ head-spin, just knowing he’ll be properly inside him soon, getting to press himself deeper and harder how Harry likes it. Once his dick is filling Harry up, there's no room for daydreaming about it all.

A twitch of a smirk plays at Louis’ lips every time Harry comes to for a moment and kisses with more purpose, gripping Louis’ arse in needy circles before giving in to the feeling and withdrawing into pleasure again. Louis is just as lost in it – moving in the clumsiest, instinct driven thrusts, and moaning into Harry’s mouth every time he grinds deeper inside him.

Fucking like this is clumsy and rough and _loud_. Harry can’t keep the noise down, starting low in the back of his throat before escaping in heaved breaths, falling apart under Louis’ touch. Even Louis – notorious for concentrating silently during sex (so much so that Harry has smoothed the wrinkle lines with his thumb and kissed the spot just to bring a smile to Louis’ face) has things to say – _lots_ , apparently – drunkenly cussing and calling Harry’s name.

As Louis predicted, they don't last long. Harry comes undone with a full bodied shudder, and Louis follows with a few encouraging words and caresses.

When Louis wakes the next morning, it's after a full and satisfying night’s rest. He fumbles around in the dark with one arm still around Harry’s naked waist, the other reaching for his phone. The first thing he thinks when he checks his phone is that his charger hasn’t worked properly and he’s still only on fifteen percent. The second, is that they’ve slept in till midday. The third – and the most alarming – thing doesn’t really sink in at first. When he squints hard enough into the glare of his phone screen and properly registers the dozen missed calls and worried texts, then he considers maybe ‘alarming’ isn’t an appropriate descriptor. The worst thing. Definitely the worst.

Somewhere in the back of his sleep addled brain, he convinces himself this is not the disaster that it is. That in his foggy morning vision and burning hangover headache, he’s completely dreamt the whole thing up. He even goes so far as to let himself seethe in reality, and _still_ believe it won’t have monumentally bad consequences. That, for as long as he has Harry, they can get through anything and everything. He can just turn off his phone, sink back into bed, and the rest of the world will just fade away.

The tragedy is that he’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... yep.
> 
> No comment on what's happened. Have fun guessing, you'll have at least two weeks up your sleeve before you find out anyway ;)
> 
> I'm a little lazy with the referencing this time I apologise! 
> 
> • Louis and Harry wrote ['Perfect'](http://onedirection.wikia.com/wiki/Perfect) together, so I cooked up a fluffy scene about how the song came into fruition around that!  
> • Niall mentioned once that recording 'Never Enough' was a load of horsing around with the boys, but I can't for the life of me find the link to the specific video of him saying it...  
> • Louis' ridiculous ['Salad in the wind'](https://twitter.com/louis_tomlinson/status/28789356336521216) tweet inspired me to have him make that word play in the studio recording 'Walking In the Wind' vocals.  
> • Liam did do an article with [Attitude Magazine](http://www.eonline.com/au/news/694810/liam-payne-covers-gay-magazine-attitude-talks-drinking-partying-and-one-direction-s-future) and it was controversial and attacked LGBT+ fans, specifically Larries. We all remember that, and I will defend the fact that I don't think Liam actually said any of that since all print media around the One Direction boys is shady... but you can draw your own conclusions!  
> • In real time, the article came out early September, but in IGIG timeframe it's early August.  
> • Harry did actually, laughably, take Kendall to the gay bar [Therapy](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2521018/Harry-Styles-takes-new-girlfriend-Kendall-Jenner-gay-bar-Therapy-New-York-date.html) and it's also true that it's reportedly his favourite in NYC.  
> • I researched and they do have Drag performances, you can find out more on the bar's [website](http://www.therapy-nyc.com/rxevents.html)  
> • If you need a visual of the [sassy dance move](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3kNKzyEWU0) Harry makes during Destiny Child’s 'Survivor'!  
> • I whipped up a quick YouTube [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYS_Uwx9NyoGo5lYsF_0rnXr9hzneyW39) of the songs played in the gay bar in case you wanted to check that out! (I have like, five IGIG playlists on Spotify but that can be difficult to share)


	11. Long Way Down

_‘Point of no return and now it’s just too late to turn around. I try to forgive you, but I struggle ‘cause I don’t know how. We built it up so high and now I’m falling… it’s a long way down.’_

“D’ya… d’ya remember what happened last night?” Harry asks into the dark, voice groggy and thick with sleep and the leftover residue of God knows what he drank at the club. Right now, he’s as disorientated as he’ll ever be – half asleep and totally hung-over. He’s got no clue what time it is and almost forgets for a moment that they’re even in New York City.

He feels Louis stir behind him, knows already that he woke up a few minutes prior by how he squeezed Harry’s side and nuzzled that way he always does when he’s extra tired in the mornings.  

“Mhm,” Louis mumbles back, “Dunno… but I went home with the fittest bloke in the club.” His words reverberate against Harry’s back and it’s difficult to even distinguish the flirtation in his tone, until he lets out a near silent giggle into Harry’s shoulder blades. Cheeky bugger.

“Shu’ up.” Harry retorts, hardly conveying an ounce of real anger, grinning stupidly into his pillow.

“That, and you sung _Your Body Is a Wonderland_ to the entire patronage.”

“I didn’t.” Harry counters, aghast.

Louis huffs. “You did, I’m afraid.” He tells him gravely.

“Shit,” Harry groans, trying to wrack his brains for that particular image. Somehow it escapes him; lost in the sea of shots, Taylor Swift, and kissing. _Lots of kissing_ , he thinks. “Nobody better have filmed that.”

Louis’ silence is answer enough.

“ _Lou_ …” He whines, nudging Louis’ side with his elbow and eliciting a high yelp.

“I won’t show anybody!” Louis laughs, his voice a lot more croaky than Harry initially thought. It’s a bit sexy, actually. “S’just a little souvenir.”

“Dickhead,” Harry mumbles half-heartedly, craning his neck just to peak at the guilty looking Louis before facing forward again. “M’gonna have to seek revenge.”

“Oh, is that so?” Louis counters, voice high and mockingly posh.

“Yep,” Harry softly mutters back, eyes closed and hands entwining with Louis’.

“Shaking in my boots.” Louis teases.

“So you oughta…” Harry replies with a pout, shifting backward minutely; anything to have their bodies flush against each other, his own seeking Louis’ radiating warmth. “Hey, Lou?”

“Yes, dear?” Hoarse – like crackling fire on a cold night, all comforting and earnest.

“What’s the time?”

“No clue,” Louis states, “Me phone’s dead.”

Harry forces himself to be more alert, searching across the bed with an arm he can barely control because it hasn’t caught up with the rest of his body yet, awake and energised. Eventually he finds his phone, but discovers after several frustrated clicks and presses of buttons that it, too, must be flat.

“Why’s there no clock in this room?” Harry demands sluggishly, dropping his phone on the mattress carelessly, “Every hotel room should have a bloody clock.”

“Yeah?” Harry can tell by the gentle way Louis asks this that he’s humouring him, letting him rant about the most inconsequential thing in a sleepy daze just because he loves him.

“Yeah! M’gonna have to complain…”

Louis laughs, perhaps because Harry’s threat is entirely empty – after all, Harry can’t recall a time he’s ever complained about anything, least of all clocks. In fact, he’s fairly positive Louis could list the times Harry has actually thanked people for inconveniences such as these. He doesn’t give a damn about clocks in hotel rooms, cotton thread count or Wi-Fi signal – any of the things he figures people actually nag hotel staff about.    

“You do that, love.” Louis encourages, before letting out a groan. “I’ve got the absolute king of headaches.”

“No,” Harry laments sympathetically. He turns to face Louis with a star-fish shaped stretch before curling up into Louis’ side like a clinging koala. “D’s’that make it better?” he asks, peppering Louis’ cheeks with sloppy kisses, only becoming more insistent with them as Louis’ grin grows across his face.

Louis kisses him back, chastely on their equally chapped lips and says, “Much better.”

Consciousness doesn’t last long after that; Harry holding Louis close and their breathing in melodic synchronisation. He sees no rhyme or reason in staying awake, not while his eyelids are so heavy and Louis’ headache throbs for a rest.  

By the time Harry comes to for the second time that morning – or rather, afternoon – it’s to the sound of a phone call drifting into his dream. And when that doesn’t totally do it, it’s Louis voice – urgent and familiar.

“Harry. Shit. _Harry_.” He whispers, while Harry tries to calculate how a phone could be ringing if both of theirs haven’t been charged. The dial stops, but Louis’ worried voice doesn’t. “You’ve _got_ to wake up, love.”

“What?” Harry grumbles, squinting up at the worried expression on Louis’ face. All he can think is that they must have slept in really late. “What time is it?” He manages, realising his obsession with time-telling devices influenced a very Dali melting clock related dream just now. He’ll have to tell Louis about it, once he stops badgering him.

“Never mind that. Check your phone.”

“Wh–m’phone isn’t on, though,” Harry complains with frown lines etching deep. He doesn’t like the tone of Louis’ voice, the panicked look in his eyes. “What’s the matter?” He gets there finally, searching sleepily for what could bring such an awful expression to his boyfriend’s face.

“Haz, just fucking do it.” Louis almost snaps, eyes darting to where Harry’s phone lies on the bedside table – apparently plugged in. Louis must’ve done that while Harry was sleeping.  

It’s true that they’ve massively overslept. His eyes land on the _1:58pm_ before the notifications. In that split second between seeing the time and processing the endless stream of missed calls and texts, everything is fine. Because he just doesn’t know – until he does.

1:59pm and Harry’s world comes crashing in around him.

He can’t read all of them – that’d take too fucking long – instead he just scans, getting increasingly frantic as pieces of the puzzle start coming together. He doesn’t even know what Louis does during this, not aware if he’s watching, not even feeling a reassuring hand on his leg or words of comfort. All he’s attuned to is the rampant thud of his own heart, the prickling heat at the back of his neck, the wave of sinking dread accompanied with each message that confirms the nightmare he’s living.  

There’s several missed phone calls from management, a couple from his mum as well, accompanied by a ‘call me when you get these sweetheart’ text. There’s even the occasional colleague or estranged friend asking what exactly it is that they’ve seen in the papers. Harry hasn’t got answers to any of their questions.

The top of his message stream is a text from Nick Grimshaw:

> **Glass closet = completely shattered. Much like you look in those photos... Hope this is all part of the plan, Harold. Let me know if you’re okay.**

And then Kendall:

> **OMG H!!!!!!! what the fuck. what the fuck.**

Followed by: 

> **either this is a really fucking clever PR plan or you’ve royally fucked up. call me dude.**

“Yours too?” Harry finally says, low and wavering. He looks over at Louis, who’s been watching him with a pained, anxious expression.

“Mine too.” Louis says, his eyes vacant and glassy. “This is fucking bad.”

Fear festers in Harry’s gut like an infected wound – sickening and painful, unshakable even as he sits up straighter and takes Louis’ phone in his hand with a swift snatch. He doesn’t know what he expected, because all his worries are simply confirmed by looking through Louis’ missed calls list. Four from Modest, six from Jay, and assortment of others that would only contact him in an emergency. Even Zayn’s name is on the call list. Harry knows then that this is the epitome of bad.

“There’re photos.” Harry says quietly, looking through his own phone again, reading a text from a friend that references said photos.

“Two.” Louis answers, knowing Harry so well; that although it wasn’t posed as a question, the vulnerable quiver needed clarification. “From _fucking_ Snapchat. Of all bloody things.”

The full scale of it doesn’t totally hit until Louis brings up an article from the _[Daily Mail](https://68.media.tumblr.com/49e8dd1b51253ce4a76ef52edf98a4f9/tumblr_omuvrs1wwp1rm8lqro1_1280.png)_ with the [headlined](https://68.media.tumblr.com/9cc221d546dc27a8e350679973f79871/tumblr_omuv6tnvjE1rm8lqro2_1280.png) [photos](https://68.media.tumblr.com/b3c07a56dfde018f94ce56e675b26a7c/tumblr_omuv6tnvjE1rm8lqro1_1280.png).

They aren’t kissing. That’s something, at least. Considering how many times they could have been caught in a much more compromising position that night, it’s actually pretty PG. In the first, Harry is smirking, hand raised mid-gesture, Louis’ lingering glance at his lips a little more flirtatious than everything else in the image. The second picture is slightly more intimate, Harry leaning in close and whispering something into Louis’ ear. He remembers doing that – early enough in the night that alcohol, although debilitating, wasn’t memory misplacing. He’d leant in close, feeling particularly suave and confident, muttering sweet nothings to the man of his dreams. He remembers enjoying it, too, which is the worst part; that it’s tainted now. The whole night, he realises, is tainted now.

The photos are grainy – shitty-phone-app-camera kind of grainy. The lighting of the club doesn’t help much, either; shrouding their faces in darkness, the occasional beam of strobe light spilling onto a shoulder or a curl of hair. He’s not a fan of the captions, either, and he spends a long time painting the picture of the person who had both the gumption and lack of respect to capture such an intimate scene and splash it across the internet so casually. Were they a fan, so caught up in star-struck awe that their common decency was abandoned to the sound of _SexyBack_? Or were they simply someone who didn’t care enough to let two celebrities be people for one night, greedy and self-entitled, not understanding the grand scale of what they’d done? Maybe they’re neither – just a regular club patron on a regular night, finding Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson a brief amusement that’s now spun into a world-wide celebrity scandal.  

In many poetic ways, it’s a piece of unlikely art – the way everything should get in the way of revealing this private moment between Harry and Louis, yet doesn’t. The dim light should make them unrecognisable; the people blurring and moving in the foreground should block them from view. Hell, the zoomed in, shaky hand of the perpetrator should distort the whole thing. Yet here they are, beneath Harry’s thumb in the middle of the uprooted bed, sheets crumpled and Louis silent beside him. Here they are, suspended in time and on full display – in love, as obvious as the light of day. Without even needing to kiss.

As Harry thought – quite poetic.

“What do we do?” Louis is the one to ask, though Harry is sure he plucked it right from the depths of Harry’s own brain.

Harry stares down at the photos a moment longer before he clears his throat, clicking it off and digging the phone into the doona covers with the palm of his hand.

“Uh…” He has to clear his throat before collecting himself, blinking sluggishly and looking Louis in the eyes properly for the first time since he woke him up five minutes ago. Mirrored back to him is the sheer panic in Louis’ glassy, wide eyes. There’s nothing more sickening than seeing the person you love look like that. Everything inside Harry feels static, like his nerves are buzzing and the whites of his eyes could be filled with black spots just like on an analogue TV screen. “Err – shit. I don’t know. I guess…” He searches the silk bed covers for an answer, but it’s just blank, and white, and not his saviour. Not at all. He throws a hand up and down in lazy frustration, shaking his head because he doesn’t fucking know what they’re supposed to do. “Call our manager back, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Louis quips, looking on the verge of being sick, “Yeah, shit, okay. I’ll do that.”

Two espressos, four Advil tablets, a squeezing reassuring hand hold, and seven-hour flight later, Harry and Louis arrive in L.A. For the first time since the start of the year, every movement is taken in numb silence – Harry and Louis alike on autopilot as they make their way through customs and to a car awaiting them.

For the most part they don’t even talk, which feels bad enough – but it’s not nearly as awful as when they trying to make conversation out of nothing. There are days where all they do is talk and talk, and now Harry finds there’s just no words to be said. Or maybe there’s too many – like _what the fuck do we do, what happens now, where do we go from here?_ All these questions racing through Harry’s mind as he vacantly answers text after text, politely thanking people for their concern, empty reassurance that things will be alright. He doesn’t know if they will be, not whilst they’re in this stagnant in-between – having arrived too late at night for a meeting with management and now having to wait it out til morning. What he does know is that they’re in hot water – he could see it in the weary nods Louis made on the phone to management when they arrived at the hotel in West Hollywood, in the way he shrugged after they hung up and muttered that they’ll ‘just have to wait and see’. And it isn’t all about the Big Bad Wolves at Modest, or the slander they might be receiving online (neither of them have checked their social media, it’s best that way). It’s about the fact that they were so fucking happy, and now they aren’t.

The meeting couldn’t come sooner, Harry and Louis sitting around in tense silence. Harry wants to softly reprimand Louis for the way he’s biting his nails to the quick, fervent and anxious, but he doesn’t. He wants to wrap him in a warm hug, too – tell him that they’re strong enough to get through anything and everything, but he doesn’t.

“Maybe we shouldn’t’ve done that,” Harry breaks the quiet of the Modest office waiting room. He feels like he’s on show, humiliated by the way the receptionist eyes them over her glasses. “Gone to the club, I mean…” He elaborates when Louis furrows his brows, “It was pretty reckless.”

“No, H. You don’t actually believe that,” Louis’ voice is soothing, and it almost feels like Harry’s gone without it for far too long. “If anything, we should’ve done it sooner. Got this shit out of the way.”

“I love you.” Harry answers, fiddling with one of his rings with a little more force than needed. He says it because it’s true and because he knows Louis needs to hear it right now; who’s all wound up, tight as ever, bouncing his leg up and down in a nervous twitch and fixing his fringe in five second incriminates.

“I’m gonna give ‘em a piece of my fuckin’ mind,” Louis hisses, sucking in his cheeks, hollowing them out in a disdainful purse of his lips.

“I know.” Harry’s voice is more levelled than his thoughts, exuding a calm he only wishes he felt inside.

“You know what they’re going to say, don’t you?” Louis continues, “It’ll be all the same _bullshit_ as last time.” He’s not even looking at Harry when he says it, a ghost of the boy beside him all those years ago after the New Zealand video leaked, all defiant bravado in place of a scared introspection.

Harry lets Louis rant in whispers to the generic waiting room tune over the speakers and the quiet tapping of the receptionist typing on her computer behind the desk. He lets him because it’s so much better than the silence he’s endured, so much better to see that spark reignited in Louis where once there was weary defeat. Especially when all Harry can do is deliberate internally, focusing on his breathing and the glint of his ring under the fluorescence – when all he can do is try not to think that history is repeating itself in horrifying succession.

“I think it’s fair to say that the cat’s out of the bag.” Simon Jones states upon arrival, looking amused, if anything else, and easing into his chair between Kim, Simon, and Jeffrey. He exudes with an air of confidence that makes Harry incredibly unsettled.

“Yeah,” Louis scoffs bitterly, “You could say that.” He’s slouching next to Harry, folding his arms and sitting back like a kid who’s just been dragged to the Principal's office for putting a whoopee cushion under the quiet boy’s chair during class. Harry, on the other hand, feels anything but defiant; sitting upright and rigid, wringing his hands in his lap. “So what are we doing here, then?”

“Very interesting you should ask, Louis.” George remarks. Harry remembers everybody’s names, from individual fan encounters to the woman who served him in a Melbourne café two years ago. This includes people from Modest whom he’s never spoken more than bland civilities to. The man seated before him doesn’t stand out, that’s for certain; in his late thirties with a relatively mundane appearance. Harry even thinks he’s balding slightly, and were it a different circumstance they might jest over their matching receding hairlines.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” Louis corrects him bluntly, and Harry can tell by his flippancy that George isn’t someone on his memorable list, “We are _not_ on a first name basis, mate.”

George appears mildly taken aback, but grits his teeth with a curt nod of understanding. “Right, well…” He clears his throat, “ _Mr. Tomlinson_ , then,” He turns his attention to Harry now, “And Mr. Styles,” he greets, “You’re in a romantic relationship. Is it safe to assume that?” He’s looking at Harry when he poses the question, so the fact that he remains unaffected – jaw clenched and expression neutral – results in a moment of awkward silence. Louis catches them all off guard by answering.

“Yeah, we are.”  

“We’ve got to do some major damage control,” Kim mutters to Simon Cowell, the words not meant for Harry or Louis’ ears. It’s unfortunate, really, to hear it. Harry sort of wishes he hadn’t, that it’s almost… considerate of her that she hadn’t intended for him to hear. After all, they’ve got on so swimmingly in the past, exchanged chuckles and light chats during office hours. Kim has always been fond of Harry, even smiling curtly when he and Louis entered the conference room a mere ten minutes ago. So it’s somewhat of a punch in the gut to see the averted eyes and muttered words. He’s become an _other_ in her eyes. It doesn’t matter how sweet and good natured he’s always been – when it comes down to politics and family values, he’s different to her now.  

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake!_ ” Louis exclaims, sitting forward in his chair and demanding everyone’s attention instantly, “Do you hear yourselves? It’s _2015_. Nobody gives a fuck about two gay boy-banders.” He folds his arms again, looking ten times his height with the commanding look in his eyes. Harry feels a surge of pride just being in his presence. “In fact, we’re pretty much following tradition!” He scoffs that last part, looking between the four people on the other side of the desk.

Despite everything, Harry, too, lets out a chortle. “Yeah. Last I checked, Lance Bass was doing pretty well for himself.”

Louis and Harry exchange looks of wonderment then, equally in awe of each other; and it brings a surge of comfort to Harry’s chest. The look says everything without words – that they won’t back down, that no matter what happens here today, things are going to be okay.

“Have you had a look at Twitter?” Simon asks, smarmy as ever.

Harry’s smile falters. “No, wh–”

“The hashtag ‘Larry Is Real’ is trending,” Simon elaborates coolly, glancing at his papers to get the correct statistics before looking up at them both again, “And variations of that tagline. Over three million tweets.”

“Well,” Harry begins smugly, lower lip jutted in amusement, “They aren’t wrong.”

“This isn’t a joke.” Simon Jones chimes in for the first time since he arrived.

“Isn’t it?” Harry poses casually, raising his eyebrows in faux innocence. He shrugs, sitting back in his chair in a way that makes him appear much more relaxed than he’s truly feeling. “It’s pretty funny to me.”

“The attention this has garnered is beyond… anything that we’ve ever encountered.” George leans his elbows against the shiny table surface, the creases of his suit jacket being Harry’s focus for a full ten seconds before he gives him the satisfaction of eye contact.

“Your point?” Louis asks with an air of impatience. He’s jittery again – biting the inside of his cheek, clenching the side of his chair with his fingers.

“There’s no need for me to inform you of the repercussions this will have on you both personally,” Simon Jones interrupts, “As I’m aware, we’ve had a similar discussion with you in the past, correct?”

Harry swallows dryly at the mention of New Zealand. He had been doing such a good job not thinking about that. In fact, he’s been putting all his energy into doing just that from the moment he saw the photos – shoving the memories into the faraway corners of his brain where they’ll hurt less – do nothing except collect dust like a box of children’s toys in an attic. He did it the whole flight over to L.A. – tried to ignore the sickening familiarity of the Modest office and Louis beside him and yet another leaked thing; tried to ignore another drunken night, another series of closeting plans awaiting them in conference room five. Because it has to be different this time – he knows it’ll be different.

He can’t confront it – the onslaught of traumatic memories from three years ago. Yet he can’t escape them, either. They linger at the edges of his mind, leaving his nightmares laced with a hot sweat, and making even the most comforting of words fall away to a shell of a promise. There are a lot of problems with how he and Louis did things in the past - problems that hurt in ways he never thought they would; that hurt for a long time, no matter how systematic and utterly naive his approach to working through them was.

His vision refocuses to the image of Simon Cowell’s lips pursing together in answer – a ‘yes, we’ve discussed these boys and their homosexual antics before’ sort of purse, looking as unappealing as milk gone sour smells, as fruit weeping and moulding with age. Botox has not been kind, Harry realises numbly.

“I’ve no need to know if you were lying at the time of that meeting about the nature of your… relationship,” Simon Jones continues, and it nearly curdles Harry’s blood in his veins to hear the two of them discussed like that. “Regardless, the clauses outlined within your contract still stand.”

“As you can imagine,” Simon Cowell interjects, unmoved from his rigid position like a Madame Tussauds’ wax figure, “Keeping such vital information about your personal life from your employer is just… unacceptable.”

“It’s called a personal life for a reason. You know that, right?” Louis retorts.

“Let’s talk about your contract, shall we?” Kim perks up, perhaps trying to lighten the mood with her tone, though it falls completely flat. She rifles through papers before passing them along to her colleagues. “And where we can go from here.”

“Be my guest.” Louis folds his arms.

Simon Cowell mutters to Kim with a shake of his head and she retracts her hand, papers and all, back into her personal space.

“You’re not kids anymore, clearly,” he states, and he’s the spitting image of his former self, asking invasive and uncomfortable questions that always ended in _we weren’t kissing_ and _we won’t do it again_ and all the things Harry doesn’t like thinking about – still to this day. “We don’t need to sit here splitting hairs over contractual phrasing. By now you already know you have breached your contract. Neglecting to inform us about the breach is another mistake of yours.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice, you know,” Louis gestures vaguely, “With you lot being homophobic and everything.”

“Louis, please,” Simon quips, “This hasn’t got anything to do with your sexuality.” He puts it so plainly, as if it’s a universal truth, as if his tongue isn’t soaked in lies.

Harry snorts involuntarily, “Fuck off, of course it does.” That shuts everyone up, Harry’s low curse filling the air. Now all eyes are on him, Louis’ with the glint that gets him through everything. “It has absolutely _everything_ to do with it. Why else would we be here?” He pauses, letting the gravitas of his question properly sink in. Nobody answers. “Niall gets papped peeing in public, Liam posts half naked pictures with Sophia, Zayn leaves the fucking band altogether – no questions asked. But but _we’re_ the ones sittin’ here.” He breathes in, gathering himself. He could spiral, if he let himself. Get worked up and lose control – but if Harry is anything, he’s collected, he’s calm. “We went clubbing. It's what people do. I didn’t hear a single word when Louis was out with a new girl on his arm every night,” He pauses, his words sinking in, resonating throughout the room and emphasising their cold delivery, “So don’t waste our time and tell us this s’not ‘bout us being gay.”

“Harry,” Simon Jones has the gall to speak, the echo of Harry’s words still sinking in around the table, including Louis, – who – judging from a brief glance to his side, is looking at Harry like he’s just seen him for the first time. “We get it. You’re upset. And rightly so, I suppose, from your perspective,” Harry hates the way he’s attempting to be being chummy, of all things; hates that it’s this exact tone and cavalier treatment that’s got him his way so many times before this. “But this is so much more than… than politics. This is business. The fact of the matter is, you’ve both willingly gone back on your word. Here at Modest, a person’s word is… very important to us.” He pauses. “Hell, it’s pretty much what drafts our contracts.” He chuckles, jovial and well-meaning – only not at all, if you look close enough.

“Should we be calling our lawyers?” Louis asks then, stopping Simon before he can continue with his friendly little act. Harry is grateful.

“Now, now, that really won’t be necessary.”

“No?” Harry asks, deliberately utilising the low octave of his voice to unnerve all four of the people seated opposite.  

“There’s a bigger picture to all of this,” Kim, once again sensing the hostile atmosphere, decides to try and deflect from it. She presses her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, twitches her lips, and glances between Harry and Louis before eyeing her colleagues, “The fans, the general public…”

“Right,” Simon agrees with a curt nod, “It’s pertinent that we discuss our approach going forward. The pictures, thankfully, aren’t entirely… let’s say, incriminating. The captions, however… manage to make up for that. Suggestive.” He seems almost peeved about having to explain this, heaving a sigh and leaning in on the surface of the desk. “Could be worse, of course. Much worse. Our main problem is the kind of establishment they were taken at.”

“A gay club,” Louis offers with a menacing edge, “You can say it, you know. It won’t give you a disease or anythin’,” Harry is watching him when he says it, can see the way his mouth almost forms around the swearing and cursing he wants to expel into the room, but manages to bite back. “ _Gay club_. For gay people. Gay, gay, _gay_ .” He heaves a breath, arms taut to his body, itching with a devil-may-care kind of rage, “Cause that’s the real problem, isn’t it?” He leans forward, craning his neck and letting his tongue slick across the inside of his lower lip, a coy sort of understanding in his eyes. “You could make up some… some disgustin’ rumour about Harry gropin’ a girl or–” He gestures to Harry before continuing on with his speech of apocalyptic proportions, “Us being each other’s wingmen – that we went home with five birds and had some kind of orgy – hope you’re writin’ all this down, by the way Jimmy,” Louis pointedly looks at George, his words dripping with sarcasm, “For the next gay scandal you’ll have to cover up,” He leans back in his chair then, voice softer when he speaks again, “…But with us, _you can’t._ Because it was a gay club. I’m right, aren’t I?”

It takes pretty much everything in Harry for him not to burst into laughter – not because the situation is funny in any way, but because he’s so in love and he couldn’t’ve said it better himself. It’s the kind of laughter rising inside him that he imagines some might experience when they’re grieving the loss of a loved one; inappropriate and entirely unexpected, yet somehow the most animalistic and instinctual response he can muster.

“You’re under a contract that prohibits relationships within the band,” Simon Jones shrugs, always coming back to legality and business as if there aren’t hearts on the line, “Now, we’re willing to overlook this breach if you play by our rules. This can be settled right here in a matter of minutes, or you can make this… difficult.”

Louis slackens next to Harry, looking not so much defeated – although maybe there’s a little of that – but mostly tired. Harry’s cheeks feel pricklingly hot – guilt or fear or something else, he’s not entirely sure. Echoes of conversations run through his ears; of himself, Louis, Liam and Niall – of a ‘hiatus’ and ‘coming out’ and all the things Modest know nothing about. _Can’t ever_ know about.

 _Our rules._ That’s the part that repeats in Harry’s mind, obsessively playing on a loop. _Their rules_ were what ruined him and Louis in the first place. He’s having visions of pretty, blonde country singers, and drunken Christmas Eve voicemails listened to over and over. Of crying and pining, and fading tattoos with equally fading promises.

Suddenly, Harry wishes they’d talked properly in the build up to this meeting instead of avoiding it. That he and Louis had come up with a game plan, figured out their exact story so it wouldn’t go tits up upon arrival like he’s starting to sense it could now. All he has are assumptions and guesses and the memory of how it all happened the first time around.

The two Simons are talking, papers laid out, and Harry is trapped – glass walls and office cubicles closing in like a prison cell he can’t escape. Even the water cooler bubbling in the corner, and the large plastic fern moving gently in the air conditioned breeze are some sort of corporate hell.

If Louis and Harry just had five minutes to talk privately, excuse themselves for the rest room and reconvene… if Harry could just push the images and words of his younger self aside – of Louis’ 20-year-old hand retracting from his thigh, all of it going up in flames from that day on–

If only.

Something drifts into his thoughts – the words ‘paternity scandal’ and ‘Kendall Jenner’ and the idea of shoving his friend, too, deeper in the closet – and suddenly Harry is at his breaking point.

“No,” Harry bellows, louder than even he expected. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding. A _pregnancy?_ ” He stares blankly between Kim and George and shakes his head, “Obviously we won’t do that, no.”

Both Simons, George, and Kim all exchange the sort of looks that tell Harry a simple ‘no’ won’t suffice in this situation.

“It’s the best option right now. People aren’t going to shut up about this any time soon, especially with the amount of time we’ve waited to act on it. It’s fishy, and everybody knows it, so it’ll have to take something big, something drastic,” Simon Jones states as casually as discussing a film he saw on the weekend that he might’ve thought was too contrived, or perhaps a soccer match his team lost. “You won’t have to do much, really. Just be spotted with a no-name girl… we’ll pass on the story to _The Sun_ and the rest will be up to the public – the guess work and so on. The point is to take the heat off of the leaked photos,” He pauses, nodding at his own handy-work. “Piece of cake.”

“How about we come out instead?” Harry counters, attempting nonchalance, lips pouted and arms folded with a shrug. Louis stiffens beside him, and until then Harry could almost ignore how demoralising his silence has become in the past five minutes.

“Before the album promotion season?” Cowell asks, though Harry senses it’s not a question at all. “No.”

“Okay, so after it.” Harry’s heartbeat is quickening in his chest and all he can focus on is Louis not saying a _thing._

“We’d love for you and Louis to be able to share that… part of yourself with the world. We really would. But there’s not just _us_ to answer to,” He gestures to either side before placing a hand atop the other in front of him, “And frankly, it’s all a part of the life you chose in the entertainment industry. Neither of you are strangers to public opinion, and it’s probably everyone’s least favourite part of the gig,” He appears satisfied with his little speech, but it’s doesn’t seem to be over yet. “Just looking at how those images were received…” He shakes his head wearily, “I can’t imagine your relationship could withstand that sort of… invasive and critical public interest all the time. Given the chance, wouldn’t you rather keep your private affairs as just that – _private?_ ”

 _Given a chance._ Harry thinks of Louis’ tattoo; the words etched into his skin just months before their atonement the following year. He thinks of everything they’d do if they really had a choice, everything they’d be if they were just given the chance. This isn’t a chance – this isn’t even a _choice_. Harry wants to tell them to go to hell.  

Harry risks a glance to his side, sees Louis’ wince and the way his eyes blink closed slowly, his lips remaining taut with anger. It’s exactly the same expression as he wore three years ago, and although he’s aged a little, the laughter lines at his eyes are more prominent than ever, his hair less wispy – thicker somehow. The impact of that _look_ hits Harry just as it did in 2012, his tired brain merging then and now like no time has passed at all.

“Let me make this clear,” Cowell decides to say, an almost sincere graveness in his drippy voice, enough for it to catch Harry’s focus in a way it wouldn’t usually, “For as long as you’re at Modest, coming out won’t be an option.”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat and the cynical laugh escapes involuntarily, “Well, won’t have to worry ‘bout that for much longer, then.”

“Excuse me?” Kim asks, affronted, and speaking on behalf of all four pairs of frown lines before him.

“Harry.” Louis hisses frantically, his mouth barely moving but his eyes darting everywhere.

“You heard me,” Harry jeers, leaning forward in his seat, heart thudding with what he’s about to say.

“Uh,” Louis says too loudly and precisely for it to really be an absent-minded, thoughtful mumble, “Let’s just get on with it, alright? Can you just explain what you want us to do?”

“I think Harry had something to say, hmm?” Simon Jones presses on, glancing from Louis to Harry.

“No, really – ‘nough, okay?” Louis continues adamantly, Harry’s mouth still gaping, though the words are evaporating on his tongue. “We get it, we fucked up. We’ll do your stupid shit.”

Then there’s talk of winter plans, and ways of burying the Snapchat pictures six foot under polished heterosexual couplings, and just as polished announcements about non-existent babies. And not once does Louis speak up, not once does he say no.

“Um,” Harry frowns at the desk, the shining surface and the way it gets farther away as he robotically stands to his feet not helping him hang on to the last vestiges of his calm. He manages to refocus his eyes on the people instead, all of them staring at him. Harry returns the looks to all but one. He can’t bring himself to look at Louis. “Excuse me.”

He doesn’t get very far before Louis’ voice pulls him out of his trance; not totally, but some. They’re standing in the hallway between conference rooms, glass walls surrounding them and the people they just left still within sight and ear shot.

“Harry,” Louis says, underestimating the way his voice echoes in the empty hallway. The next time he speaks it’s quieter, a frantic hiss, “ _Haz_ , slow down, will you?” Harry turns to face him, slowing to a stop, because Louis told him to – because no matter what he’ll always do what Louis asks of him. “Where the hell are you goin’?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers, voice snappier than he intended. “I don’t–” His voice breaks, and he becomes increasingly aware of how dizzy he feels; how his body feels full of critters, bees buzzing and stinging and _everything_ – even his own thoughts – impossible to hear and make sense of. “I feel _fuckin_ ’ sick.”

Louis’ face falls, lips quivering with all the emotion he can’t hold back. “I know,” He says it quietly, broken almost, “I get it.”

“How can you just…” Harry trails off, frustrated and unable to articulate it.

“Just what?” Louis asks, perplexed, but somehow still sounding impossibly soft – as if no matter what, he’ll always try to soothe Harry.

“What was that, Lou?” Harry insists, angry and confused and unable to stop the words tumbling out from his mouth in all the wrong ways. “ _What the hell_ was that in there?” Even _he_ can hear the pain in his own voice, as plain as day.

“Load of crap, really.” Louis says with a huff, almost amused.

“What?” Harry asks then, affronted. How can he be finding this situation _funny?_ How can _anyone?_ “I don’t get it. I don’t get how you’re sayin’ _yes_ to all of this.”  

“Oh, come on, Harry. You can’t _seriously_ think–”

“I can’t handle this!” Harry blurts, shaking his head frantically. Louis looks stunned, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. “I can’t fucking–” He shakes his head, feeling himself unravel, like all the pieces of his mind are tripping over themselves, clattering and clashing at his feet in one big mess of words and a raised voice.

“Haz,” Louis tries to mollify, moving closer.

“No, what the fuck,” Harry swears, arms raised in confrontation. It stops Louis in his tracks, and he’s staring, and Harry sees that look from Pittsburgh and he feels the same tightness in his chest and it’s all happening too fast. “We’ve talked about this, Lou,” He continues, relentless and ranting, “It doesn’t matter anymore, there’s pictures! What’s stoppin’ us from just telling them all to fuck–”

“Keep your voice down, H, _Jesus_ .” Louis hisses, face stricken with something Harry can’t quite figure out, something he doesn’t have the patience or clarity of thought to figure out. “People are _watching_ –”

“I don’t care. I absolutely _do not_ _care!_ ” Harry bellows back, “Everythin’ we said ‘bout the band and _leaving_ and–”

“H, _seriously_ , fuck!” Louis quips back, voice overcome and panic in his eyes. “ _We can’t_ –” He cuts himself off, eyes darting to the conference room where everyone watches on. He takes in a shaky breath, and continues with a lowered volume, “Fuck. Harry, it’s… it’s shit. We’re going to figure it out, alright?” When Harry goes to interject, Louis powers through with more conviction, “No, _listen_ , okay? We’ll talk about this at home.”

“What is there to talk about, Lou?” Harry counters, still refusing to quieten despite the stricken look on Louis’ face with every bellowed syllable. “It’s pretty fuckin’ black and white, don’t you think?”

“Harry, please,” Louis says, swallowing heavily, “Not here.” He pleads, brows furrowed and lips downturned, looking every bit defeated. He tries to meet Harry’s glare and falters, looking at a place just left of Harry; maybe it’s the wall behind him, or one of Harry’s curls that’s gotten loose from his bun. It doesn’t matter, except that he won’t look him in the eyes. “S’alright, seriously, we’ll be alright. _S’not_ black and white, but,” He raises his eyebrows cynically, “We agreed, yeah?” He tacks on with more ease, flippant almost, “It’s temporary, isn’t it? So–”

“What?” Harry interjects boldly. His heart is beating fast in his chest – expanding and restricting in quick succession – like it’s running from what’s about to happen, what’s _already_ happening.

“I said, it’s _temporary,”_ Louis reiterates through gritted teeth. “We just…” he stutters, unsure – or perhaps, a small voice at the back of Harry’s mind decides to say; nervous to reveal what he’s been thinking this whole time. “We’ll go back in there and say we’ll go along with it, alright?”

Harry can’t believe how stupid he is – how fucking stupid to believe it was going to be different this time, that the next time they walked into a meeting of this calibre it would be to tell Modest to shove it where the sun don’t shine. Instead, it’s just the same. Just the fucking same as it was four years ago, when Harry was naïve and Louis scared and neither could stick up for what they had, what they _could’ve_ had. And Harry wonders – searching Louis’ face for a sign that he’s got this all wrong – how it still all whittles back down to this.

Fixated on that – _temporary_ – Harry wonders how a single word can unravel all the trust, all the love they’ve built back together over the past year. Because this is their life on the line, and Louis has the audacity to pretend it’s trivial, to make it out like all the bearding and the lies and the separation they’ve dealt with over five years is just a temporary, fleeting ailment, rather than the traumatising burden that it has been.   

Harry knows Louis is talking; quick and mumbled, repeating over and over – about how it’ll make sense when they’re alone, that they’re going to be fine. He sees Louis’ lips moving, but all he seems to hear is white noise.

“I don’t understand,” Harry numbly states, eyes refocusing to see the deeply affected look on Louis’ face. He blinks, clearing his throat so that the next thing he says comes across cold, even if he’s not exactly feeling anything, his thoughts vague and unclear in the moment. “I thought we wanted the same thing.”

Suddenly he can’t stop the assault of memories, feeling the weight of the past sinking down on him in the middle of the hallway with Louis staring, with everyone looking on. He replays the last twenty-four hours – the silence and the nerves, the presumption that they’d fight for this, the realisation that Louis never intended to do that at all. And suddenly it feels like it makes a sickening sort of sense; how unsettled Louis has been since the leak. What was it he said? _Get this shit out of the way._ And then Harry remembers he didn’t say _I love you_ back this morning in the waiting room, and all of it rises in his throat, acidic and unpalatable.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Louis swiftly responds, looking affronted but somehow completely composed. Almost as if he’s not quite figured out how bad this is, his face carved with the calm before the storm. “Time out for a second here, Haz–”

“M’not doing this,” Harry wavers, “M’not waiting for you.”

He can’t stand here, doing this again and again. Everything leading him to this point feels like he’s hurtling toward a _Groundhog Day_ style repetition of horrific proportions. Only instead of Bill Murray and a coming-of-age romance, Harry’s not so sure his story will have such an uplifting ending.

“Okay, hold the fuck up,” Louis starts, his own voice raising in volume now, “You’re not fucking _waiting_ for me, for starters. What the fuck does that even mean?” The aggression is unmistakable now, filling the air, making it icy around them, “It’s like you don’t even fuckin’ know me! _Listen_ to yourself!”

A nauseating feeling begins to settle, festering in Harry’s gut like a virus that’s lying in wait to break out in a hot sweat, biding its time before it takes control of his entire body. That’s what it feels like to look at Louis in that moment, every doubt he’s ever had amplified to unimaginable degree.

Inexplicably, he thinks of that Beatles song – _I’m Looking Through You_ – and he gets it. With a broken heart and an ache that rattles his bones, he gets it. Because he’s looking through Louis now; trying to pull at the pieces he knows and the parts that are foreign to him, dissecting what’s real and what isn’t. And, somehow, he’s starting to think love really _does_ have the habit of disappearing overnight. If it was ever there at all – for Louis, that is.

“You’re right,” Harry says after a lingering silence. This time his voice is softer, though with an edge he’s never even heard from himself. “I don’t know you.”

“Stop this,” snaps Louis, body rigid as the colour drains from his features, “Stop this now.”

“I am!” Harry yells back, and if people were listening before, they sure as hell are now. “I’m stopping it.”

He’s nineteen again, standing in front of Louis, watching the remnants of what they have crumble before him. He’s nineteen and he’s in love and it’s not working. It’s not working and it’s not worth it – all the exhaustion and the agony, – not when there’s always something in their way. Did they ever quite figure it out? Not the first time, not even now, when Harry thought all the complexities could fall away as long as there was love and as long as they were fighting for it. Is this the way it was always fated to be? It’s starting to feel like some cosmic force is pulling them apart; and, at the same time, as if it’s inconsequential – and they _still_ can’t make it.

It’s not meant to hurt like this. Not after everything.

“H,” Louis hesitantly moves a few steps closer, arms outstretched, before he thinks better of it and lets them fall to his sides. They don’t stay there long, fidgeting about before he folds his arms tight. He’s radiating nerves, electrified waves of it hitting Harry without even a touch. “It’s _me_.”

His words are like lead; they’re heavy and they sink into Harry’s chest with a lasting sting, poisonous to his very core.

_It’s me._

_That’s exactly the worst part_ , Harry thinks wryly.

It feels like all sound gets sucked out from between them as Harry runs his hands over his face, rubbing until his skin feels raw and wanting to pull at his hair or chew at the inside of his cheeks – anything that’ll bring the feeling back into his nerves.

He can’t figure out how he woke up in Louis’ arms with their whole future splayed out before them right there between the hotel sheets, feet entwined and hearts, too; he can’t figure out how he can be looking at Louis now; skin crawling with the idea of standing any closer than a metre, and trying to wrap his head around a future without him when he’s never had to before.

“I don’t want to do this, Louis,” Harry dares to speak, shaking all over, feeling the hot prickling threat of tears in his eyes. “I, uh… it’s not worth it, and, uhm…” He clenches his jaw, but the quiver doesn’t dissolve. “I’m tired.” He waits, almost expecting some sort of grand gesture from Louis – a single word that could dissolve all his fears, wash all the pain away like the changing of tides. But Louis has never been the moon, he’s the sun – he’s bright and he’s burning, and Harry’s been staring at it for too long, and now that he’s blinded. “So I’m done. I’m walkin’ away.”

“Right.” Louis breathes, impossibly quiet. His words hitch, and he takes a moment to gather himself before asking, “So erm… _this_ …” He seems overcome whatever he’s fighting for a fraction of a second and clears his throat,  clarifying more curtly, “As in, you and me. Meaning us?” His stare bores into Harry, and he’s thankful when Louis breaks it, foot scuffing on the spotless carpet, head bowing.

“Yeah,” And Harry isn’t even _thinking_ anymore when he speaks, it’s just auto-pilot, his body sluggish and his brain not even catching up to his mouth. It’s as if someone else has taken the reins, instructing him on what to say and do because Harry’s elsewhere, “I think– yeah. That’s what I mean.”

Louis has always been fairly good at containing his emotions when he wants, masking pain with sarcasm and snide remarks. On a really bad day, he’ll still try to keep his composure. Harry used to think it was for his benefit sometimes – the level-headed way he’d swallow back the rise of sentiment, as if he didn’t want to worry Harry, didn’t want to make a scene.

But Harry knows, right now, Louis isn’t doing any of that for his benefit that he might never do anything for Harry’s sake ever again. Because the impact of Harry’s words are slapped across Louis’ flushed cheeks, fresh and red.

There’s no taking it back, Harry realises; the pair of them staring one another down in the middle of the conference hallway. The words rise up like bile in his throat and threatens to buckle him at the knees, weakening every sentiment, every memory of joy he’s ever had. It says – _no, I’m not giving up, I’m never giving up_. It’s lodged there, choking him, suffocating him – because there isn’t a single ounce of him that knows this can be fixed; not when his body aches for a long sleep, not when all the problems will still await them at every turn, not when Louis is looking at Harry as if he’s never been more repulsed, more horrified in his whole life.

So yeah, he’s giving up.

Louis doesn’t speak, his blank expression so piercing it feels like it’s scorching Harry’s skin. He feels hot and sweltering under that gaze, thinks again that if he stares any longer he’ll be blinded. Louis is the sun, and the sun is setting.

Harry waits too long – in the silence, in the thick tension of the space between them. He thinks, perhaps, that Louis might speak, might cry, might do anything visceral, that would indicate he’s feeling exactly how Harry’s feeling. Instead he just stands there, the flush of his cheeks slowly fading. It goes and it’s golden, Harry watching the bleakness take over; swears even the sky outside the windows grows stormy and grey. He’d like to think that tomorrow there’ll be a sunrise – the yellow and pink promise of new beginnings, of healing and love. They’ve been in this twilight too long, Harry reminds himself, feeling the blood in his veins turn to cement; it’s time to leave.

He didn’t even mean it. Not really, not the break up part. How could he? But he lets it hang there, in the space separating them, smaller in his mind than it ever could be in person. It’ll take a lifetime to shake the memory of Louis’ face, a lifetime to forgive himself for the way Louis shakes his head minutely, his lips forming a muted, defeated protest. The ringing in his ears is like an alarm, telling him to evacuate the building. So he does; he flees, with Louis standing, staring, searching.

He doesn’t follow Harry. That’s the real break up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, I've finished writing the entire fic!? Which is fucking mind-blowing. I'm hoping that'll mean editing and updating chapters will run smoother from here on out.
> 
> • The Modest office is in LA as stated  
> • The article is made by yours truly.  
> • As are the snapchats. A quick (or not so quick, do you know how hard it is to mimic Snapchat zoom feature?!) photoshop job by me. I was always dreaming of a perfect edit when scenes like this happen in fics, so I thought I’d try and make it just that bit more immersive for you guys. I’ve added a watermark and I realise that is super killing of the authentic vibe, but when people steal your edits you gotta do it. If you think the edits are good enough, I'll post on my Tumblr so they're rebloggable!  
> • Simon Jones, Simon Cowell and Kim are all real members of the team at Modest. George is entirely made up. To my knowledge, Kim is a harmless and nice lady, so... well it's all fictional!


	12. Where Do Broken Hearts Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I disappeared for over a month... what's new? Next chapter will be sooner than that. I pinky promise. Come into my inbox and yell at me on Tumblr if it isn't. Love ya x

_‘Shadows come with the pain that you’re running from, love was something you never heard enough. Yeah, it took me some time, but I figured out how to fix up a heart that I let down. Now I’m searching every lonely place, every corner calling out your name.’_

It doesn’t feel real to Louis until he makes the torturously difficult trip all the way back to the hotel, bears the endless passing of time in the elevator to the eleventh floor and finds that not only is Harry not in their room, but neither are all his belongings.

He breaks his own heart just searching the wardrobes – though neither of them had the time to unpack for only an overnight stay. He breaks his own heart when he checks Harry’s bedside table, only to find a fresh copy of the Bible, and wonders if any guests actually sit down and read that crap while on holiday. Even then, it doesn’t feel completely real; Louis shuffling around the room in a numb state of being, lifting the doona cover, almost hoping Harry left behind the scent of his former self, before thinking better of it.

And then, somehow, it’s _too real_ , and the cacophony of noise – of his thoughts clashing and fighting one another, of the ringing in his ears, of the reminder to _breathe_ because somehow he’s neglected to – are enough that he can’t even stand on his two feet.

 _This is it_ , he manages to catch the thought amongst the acidic pool of them flooding his brain. _This is what it’s like to lose everything_. By now he figures he’s had enough heartache to last a lifetime, that there couldn’t possibly be any more written in the stars of his future. He should know better than to rely on fate, and destiny, and the _rotten_ stars. Someone once told him they’re long dead by the time you see them glinting in the sky anyway, so what good are they to Louis now? But he relied on Harry most of all, and now he’s in an empty hotel room because Harry left, and he’s not coming back.   

Louis swears he hears the ghost of a laugh; though it can’t belong to Harry, or himself. He can’t even fathom the muscles in his mouth and jaw that would constrict and expand and twist and knot to make a smile, let alone a _laugh_. It’s the remnants of past patrons, joyous and vacationing in Los Angeles for the sunny afternoons and the block of white in the hills – ‘Hollywood’ – a promise for glamour, or at least the glimpse of it on Sunset Boulevard. Louis doesn’t get any of that, not even a stray piece of glitter from someone’s dress on the grey cement. And he’s starting to think L.A. is his new Pittsburgh; gloomy, and miserable and the place he lost it all.

His night is restless. Each minute that ticks by sets a sickening permanency to the break-up. He expects, on some hopeful level, that Harry might knock on the door in the middle of the night, begging for Louis’ forgiveness. Maybe he might even do Louis the decency of a call, might wipe away the last twenty-four hours with a single word of regret and apology. Falling asleep, when he’s thinking like that, is nearly impossible. But then again, Louis thinks living and breathing and carrying on with life after this is near impossible – yet he manages to do it, sleep carrying him to a place where even Harry can’t infiltrate. Only for a while though, and then he’s waking the next morning in a hot sweat, plagued with nightmares – worst of all, plagued with reality.

The late morning light taunts Louis from the window, a glowing light of joy that says – _hey loser, look at me. Look how the world just keeps turning while yours falls apart._ If Harry were here, he might say something about how on Earth can Louis get all _that_ out of a bit of sun through the shades? But Harry isn’t fucking here, and he won’t ever be again.

His jaw remains very decidedly locked, his fists balled together and his heart betraying all the stagnancy in his body with the irrepressible thud that constricts his ribcage. Every single beat sounds in his ears and it says – _Harry left. He left. He left._

Louis needs a cigarette and he needs to scratch the itch at the back of his neck and he needs to respond to the five worried texts from Niall and he needs Harry back and he can’t figure out how to separate these things – not even long enough to cross one off the endless list he’s combating in his mind. So instead, he puts all of that on hold and he lets his fingers glide through his contacts to find his mother’s phone number.

At the sound of her voice, Louis is reduced to his childhood self; feeling smaller, and afraid of growing up, of paying bills and adulthood. But he’s grown, and he’s still afraid. He was taken from his mother at eighteen, left home with a dream and never came back. He thought maybe having to grow up so quickly, experiencing all the difficult things he’s been through could give him a backbone, could mean he’d be able to handle even _this_ – alone. He’s long ago realised that’s never been true, that there’s nothing less admirable than thinking you have to do everything on your own. He will always go back to who raised him. She’s his best friend, after all. When he has no one – not even the person he thought he’d spend his lifetime with – he’ll always have Jay.

“Mum,” Louis sighs into the phone. Everything is still exhausting, but holding his Mum on the line gives Louis a strength he never knew he could muster at a time like this. “I miss you.”

“Darling,” Jay coos, “Do you need me there?”

Louis closes his eyes. He hasn’t even explained why he’s lost the spark in his tone or why he’s calling at midnight in the U.K. Yet here Jay is, knowing Louis so intimately, that she can distinguish exactly what he’s feeling just by hearing the rise and fall of his breathing over the phone.

“Yes,” Louis mumbles back, lower lip quivering. He looks to the floor, freshly vacuumed from this morning’s room service, so that not even a spec of dust or strand of Harry’s hair could prove he’d ever slept here at all. “I do, but…”

“I’ll get the next flight out to L.A.” Jay decides, before her son can even think up a reason for her not to. She’d said a similar thing just two days ago when he returned her calls, and he’d promised her not to fret. He’d been so wrong, and thinking about yesterday’s optimism sends a wave of nausea throughout his body.   

“No–” He interjects, cutting himself off before he becomes too overwhelmed to eloquently explain himself. “No, Mum,” He’s finally able to say in a more even tone, “I mean, I really just… that’s too difficult for you.”

“Don’t be daft,” Jay responds with a motherly scoff – the kind that’s light hearted, yet carries a wisdom unknown in anyone else. “And don’t be a martyr either, you know how I feel about _those_.” She wittily adds. After a lingering second she continues with a soothing voice, “It’s no trouble. Dan’ll take care of the kids, I can arrange everything if you’ll give me a minute.”

Louis wishes he could let his mother drop everything for him like she’s always prepared to do. But something about the idea of her coming all the way to Los Angeles to comfort him makes him focus too much on _why_ she has to comfort him. And then it makes everything far too real, when he’s been hiding away in this hotel room to ignore that very fact.

“M’not bein’ a martyr, Mum,” Louis sighs, staring at a single spot on the horizon out the window now, the glare of the sun leaving spots on his irises, “Just want you to stay on the phone for a bit.”  

“I can do that, love.” Jay concedes, sounding only the slightest bit frustrated that she can’t be with Louis in person, putting up a good front for his sake regardless. He busies himself from his pain to imagine her in her pastel blue dressing gown – the one she had when he was a child, that she’s long since thrown out, that’s been replaced with a much more expensive, pink one from Lottie and Fizzy on Mother’s Day. He imagines the blue one, anyway, and what it’s like to hug her in it, smelling like fresh laundry and _Mum_. He pictures her sitting down with a cup of tea on their kitchen table in the middle of the night, ready to pack her bags and fly to America at a moment’s notice.

“He’s gone.” Louis manages to say, because he hasn’t explained and he can only run from the truth for so long, teeter around it with talk of the weather or the twins’ health. His throat and mouth are dry, and no matter how much he swallows he can’t seem to rectify it.

Jay takes in a deep, steady breath. If she’s surprised (and Louis is certain she is), she doesn’t let on more than a prolonged silence and a simple dreaded need for clarification, “Harry left?”

When Louis’ response comes out in a strangled, piteous sob, Jay quickly asks, “Where are you, sweetheart? Are you safe?”

“Yeah,” Louis answers shakily. “Yeah, I’m uh… I’m in our hotel room,” He frowns at nothing, clears his throat and tries with everything left within him to say this without breaking his heart all over again, “We were at the meetin’ yesterday and he… he left me.”

A silence, and then, “Oh, darling…” There’s a lingering sigh on her end. “Everything is far too hard on you boys.”

“He said he was sick of me.” Louis responds, and he feels eight-years-old, telling his Mum about the boy who was a bully to him at school that day. As if maybe she can find some magical resolution to everything that has been said and done. “‘N that he didn’t want to wait ‘round for me anymore. Whatever that means.”

“That doesn’t sound like Harry,” Jay ponders, voice etched with concern, “Not _at all_ …”

“That's exactly it, Mum!” Louis exclaims, animated for the first time in hours. “Sounded nothin’ like himself. I don't know what he was _thinking_ …” He kicks his heel against the bed, swings his leg out and does it all over again, itching with nervous energy. “He just walked away like it was nothing! Like _I_ was…” He can't finish the sentence.

“I can't understand that. That boy loves you. I cannot understand this at all.” Jay insists, and Louis admires the determination in her voice, the way she sounds as if she's risen to her feet with the conviction of such a statement. It almost lets the relentless throb of his heart cease for just a moment.

“I thought that, too, Mum.” Louis’ admittance is sad, and he feels utterly despondent and sorry for himself just hearing his own tone. The truth is, of course he still thinks Harry loves him. There's no universe he can envision that Harry doesn't love him. He can't accept that. Not now – after all that Harry's said and done – not ever.

Louis listens to her breathing, knows that she’s processing the small piece of information before she calmly prompts, “What specifically brought it on?”

“I don’t…” Louis trails off, rubbing at his face with exhaustion. “I’m not sure exactly,” He allows himself a moment to pause and reflect on the morning just gone, shoving aside all emotional attachment to it as best as he can. “He was fine to begin with! We were _fighting_ it together,” There’s a squirming remnant of pride in the gut of his belly to recall it. The fact that the dreaded meeting they always feared started so strong and hopeful, that they’d both fought against every lie and every injustice that was being hurdled in their path. The fact that it somehow completely changed, that fighting together turned into fighting _against_ one another, turned into Harry walking away. That’s a different sort of squirm; a festering trepidation that brings a wave of nausea and a reminder of reality.

A sharp intake of breath, and Louis is able to recount, “He was bein’ quiet a certain way into the meetin’ and then…” He can still hear the way Harry’s voice shrunk quietly, how his stature sagged in his seat and the colour drained from his face in the wake of more closeting plans. He’d seen it and felt it with Harry as one, their hearts breaking together; only Louis never imagined his to shatter like this, never imagined to feel it alone. “Then he stood up and left, I chased after him and… he just–” Louis huffs, “You couldn’t reason with him. Anything I said he wasn’t listening, it was like he couldn’t even hear me.”

“There _has_ to be a reason for such a change of heart,” Jay persists – not incessantly, but gentle and logical, just what Louis needs right now. “When I spoke to you Saturday night you were certain the pair of you could get through this together,” Bless her, Louis can sense the frustration in her voice, completely invested in her son’s happiness that she’d argue it’s way back to him within minutes, he’s sure. “It _cannot_ have changed overnight. I’ve loved and fallen out of love many times over in my life… and I don’t believe Harry would do this without something provoking him.”

“The meeting was stressful,” Louis concedes, “But I thought we'd just say yes to whatever they asked of us this time and go home and continue with our plan.” He doesn't need to elaborate on the latter, having spent lengthy enthusiastic Skype calls with Harry telling Jay and Dan their plans to leave Modest for the Azoffs and sign at a new label come 2016. “But he walked out in the middle of it, started yelling about it, I thought they'd overhear. They'd completely throw a fit if they knew what we were planning. We were already on thin ice for breaking our bloody homophobic contract!” He rises to his feet then, sick to death of the comfort of the bed that a mere 24 hours ago inhabited himself and Harry. Dragging his hand through his hair, he huffs into the tranquil Doncaster night on the other line. “We always said we wanted to come out. These photos, though… s’not _at all_ what we wanted. There wasn’t time… we needed more _time_. But with Modest on our tails, I just had to lie on the spot, didn’t I? If they knew we’d been goin’ behind their back, seekin’ consultation from a whole different team, they’d sue the livin’ day lights out of us.”

“I know, darling. And you’re smart. I’m so proud of you for that, you know I am.” Jay soothes, always the voice of support. “I’m so angry about those pictures. I’m so bloomin’ mad.”

“They would’ve made it their mission to end all of our careers,” Louis presses on, rationalising his actions and wracking his brains for where Harry decided he didn’t agree, “Not just me and Haz,” He continues, “We’d fuck it up– sorry, Mum, we’d _ruin_ everythin’ for the rest of ‘em too.”

“You’ve always been very selfless. Both you, and Harry,” Jay answers, her voice soft and wise. “Sometimes people reach their limit, though, dear. I suspect H couldn’t think as clearly as that. By the sounds of it, he panicked, and I don’t blame him for that, not after all the time’s you’ve been thwarted by Simon and the rest of that lot in the past.”

Louis goes to answer, but cuts himself off. He pictures an eighteen-year-old Harry, with bright eyes and luscious short curls and kiss-stained lips. He throws in one viral video taken in a foreign country, stern words with management, broken promises – and the image shifts. That same boy loses that shine, and Louis watches how his lips stay untouched by him for weeks at a time, months, and then, eventually, years. He remembers watching Harry grow taller and older; the way his hair grew past his shoulders and his face became that of a man’s, with a certain edge of wisdom in the eyes Louis used to make sparkle. He compares it, then, to this morning at the Modest office; how that man Louis never stopped loving seemed smaller and fragile in his seat. How his eyes glazed over at the mention of beards. And it makes sense in a light Louis has never seen it in before – that Harry wasn't 2015 Harry beside him in that meeting, but he was somewhere back in 2012, scared and afraid. Stuck in a past that seems always to catch up with them both, no matter how fast they run from it.

He lost all that once; he's not ready to do it again. Perhaps Harry felt the same – tired and exhausted. There’s always going to be something admirable in fighting the closet, and Louis won’t ever stop – with or without Harry by his side. But stronger, still, is when you accept the weakness you’ve got, and you step away before it breaks you. Perhaps what Harry really meant was as simple as that. He didn’t want a repeat of four years ago, he didn’t want to have his heart broken all over again. So he went and broke Louis’ instead.  

“God, Mum,” Louis says then, in a dazed realisation, “God, he thinks–he thinks it’s gonna happen all over again.”

“What is?” Jay prompts, concerned with the way Louis’ voice has risen with panic.

“Back when – you know, when we weren’t speakin’ and everything was utter crap,” Louis rambles with a complete disregard for his swearing now. “I’m a fuckin’ idiot, I get that – I should’ve said something to H. I was trying but everyone was _right there_ starin’ at us and he wasn’t _listening,_ ” He lets out a disgruntled noise as pieces of the meeting flash to the front of his mind, vivid and awful. At one point Louis cuts across Harry, stops him from speaking and flippantly accepts whatever horrendous bearding plan Simon Jones has curled in his dry lips. “I said yes, Mum. They wanted us to do some sort of… paternity scandal,” Louis pauses, allowing Jay’s horrified reaction to cease before adding, “And I just wanted them to cut it out, so we could figure everythin’ out with Jeff and the boys but… I guess it freaked Haz out.”

“Oh, _of course_ ,” Jay laments, “Let’s imagine Harry’s mindset for a moment,” She’s doing that thing she used to do when Louis was young, when he’d argued with Lottie or fought with Stan. Jay would always comfort him, always be on his side no matter what, but she’d pat his leg and remind him that sometimes people act out in mysterious ways when they’re hurt. Sometimes she’d even say that about his dad, in the early days, never ceasing to amaze Louis with her kind heart and endless compassion. Louis is older now, and he’d like to think he’s wiser. Yet, the impact of his Mum doing this, even now, is like a butter menthol to a parched throat, gentle and warm. “These photos leak; things are stressful for the both of you. He sits down in a meeting assumin’ you’re going to tell Modest to bugger off. But it’s not that easy, is it? He gets overwhelmed. You remain… composed,” She sighs before thoughtfully adding, “You’ve got a knack of keeping your stress entirely hidden, did you know that?” She asks, before continuing, “That’s why you’re so good around kids, you keep everyone calm and happy,” Reluctantly, she follows on, “But I suppose composure might’ve been misconstrued at a time like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what you did. That can’t have helped poor Harry’s worries.” She allows her words to sink in, and almost as an afterthought murmurs, “I forget he’s younger than you, sometimes. He’s wise beyond his years, been through so much… I expect more than what’s fair to him, at just twenty-one. You’re both just _kids_ ,” She sounds pained by it all, and Louis can hear her sniff back a certain welling of tears, “Forced to go through such… such turmoil that you don’t deserve.”

“I get he was worried… but… he must not _love_ me anymore.” Even now, the words sound wrong, foreign in his mouth.

“Why would you think that?” Jay asks, “Did he tell you that, darling?”

Louis has to think about that for a moment. “No… I guess… not…” He sighs, “But if he loved me he wouldn’t do that, would he? I’d _never…_ ”

“I know,” she answers, crestfallen. “Occasionally, the ones we love do things we never think they’d do.” Her voice is filled with emotion, and Louis is sure she’s thinking of her own experiences with heartache. But it can’t be the same – he never thought he’d compare Harry to people like Mark, or even Troy. Harry wasn’t supposed to bail. “And it can be the worst pain imaginable, then, when they do that. But actually…” There’s a slight inflection her tone before she continues, “The ones we love aren’t exempt from flaws. I’m not excusin’ what Harry has done…” she presses on, “And actually, I’d have quite the word with him if I could, let me tell you,” Louis manages a breathy laugh at Jay’s sinister tone, and he can hear the smile in her voice as she continues, “A lot of the time, it’s when they love you the most that they hurt you the most. I believe Harry loves you, and I believe that if you two _talked_ – properly sat down – it wouldn’t be as hopeless as you think.”

“You think I should go after ‘im?” Louis asks, hearing the waver in his own voice.

“This isn’t just any boy, Louis. This is _Harry_ ,” Louis blinks back the tears at the reminder, and he wonders how things could be so utterly grim that he’d even need it. “Of course you should go after him.”

“What if…” Louis gulps back the lump in his throat, “What if he just says all of the same stuff again? Mum – I don’t know if I can handle it. It… it killed me, what he said.”

“I truly believe he won’t, love,” Jay responds in a tender voice, “ _And_ , say he does,” she adds unwillingly, “Then I’ll be right there to help pick up the pieces. You’ll figure it out. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for, my darling.”

“I don’t know where to look, Mum,” Louis says with a nervous edge, “He’s not answering his phone. I tried Gemma yesterday – she didn’t even know we had a fallin’ out. I didn’t have the heart to tell her.”

“Deep breaths, dear,” Jay interjects, calm and collected, “There’s time for all of that. Right now I want you to slow down, can you do that for me?”

“I _can’t_ –” Louis hisses, interrupted by the shuffle of someone joining Jay on the other line. A child’s voice, distinct but static around the edges in ways Louis can’t decipher.

“Daisy, darling! It’s late, go back to bed,” Jay mothers, the way she used to speak to Louis when he was eleven, just like Daisy, the way she seems to still do now, when he needs it most. Louis can hear his young sister’s response and imagines her in her pyjamas standing at the kitchen entrance, rubbing her eyes confusedly. “Mummy’s just on the phone to Lou,” Then there’s a soft chuckle from Jay, and Louis wishes he had the privilege of hearing it in person. “Now’s not the time, hun,” Jay answers whatever Daisy’s request is and then elaborates, “It’s way past your bedtime, cheeky! Go on! Off to bed with ya!” Followed shortly by a giggle from Daisy.

Louis smiles, then – a stiff, weary kind – but a smile nonetheless.

“Sorry, love,” Jay finally addresses Louis, “She wants me to tuck her in.”

“S’kay, Mum.” For once, it truly is, despite everything else really not being okay.

“I’ll call you right back, alright? Pinky promise.”

“Actually, it’s late over there, Mum,” Louis reasons, seemingly coming to his senses at the responsibility personified in its dressing gown by the kitchen door in Doncaster, “Way past your bedtime, too, I reckon.”

“Who’s the parent here?” Jay counters, that teasing edge of playfulness keeping the subtle smile at Louis’ lips.

Louis rolls his eyes, knowing Jay can probably, with her motherly magic, sense the attitude even over the phone.

“Seriously, Mum. I’ll call you if I have any updates. Even if it’s five in the morning. I don’t give a damn ‘bout your rotten sleep schedule, s’that what you want to hear?” He jokes, feeling revived if only for a fraction of a second.

Jay chuckles fondly. “My sweet boy.” Louis closes his eyes, imagining that if she was here, she’d plant a soft kiss on his cheek after saying that. “The moment there’s anything I need to know. I’ll drop everything, you know I will.”

“I know,” Louis answers quietly. “I love you.”

“And I love you, sweet pea.”

As soon as Louis hangs up, all the confidence and surety his mother built back up for him over the phone falls away to nothing. While she was able to distract and comfort him, Louis could almost detach himself from the truth of his situation. Now, alone once more in the empty hotel room, he’s never been more rooted to reality. He tries to focus on Jay’s words of wisdom, of her softly spoken advice and soothing laughter. All he keeps replaying in his mind, though, is that _love hurts_ , and that he can’t figure out when it’ll stop doing that for him. And then his heart is physically aching, just like all the songs say it does, just like grief is flooding it, so that every pump in and out spreads toxins throughout his veins.

Staring blankly down at his recent call history – the stream of Harry’s number dialled over and over, with his mother’s at the top of the list – one name stands out in the list of unanswered calls to Harry’s mobile, red and demanding; a forgotten strand of a past life. A year ago and Zayn’s name would never be in fire truck red, ignored, not answered to. In fact, a year ago and there wouldn’t be any need for phone calls at all; spending so much time together that even texting back and forth became redundant. There was a lot of things different a year ago, though.

Zayn’s call is dated as Saturday morning – just two days ago. Louis’ stomach churns uneasily, reminded of the last time they spoke at Rita’s 25th birthday – months ago – but what may as well be a lifetime. So much has changed in that short amount of time. Hell, so much changed within just hours of the last words they spoke to each other. He sees the glint of rooftop fairy lights in Harry’s eyes, he hears himself missing Zayn, he feels himself letting that go because he had Harry by his side. Now, though, the memory of a dance floor, tequila, and cramming together in back seat of a car and Harry’s hiccupping laughter and _ever heard of personal space, Styles?_ Brings with it a sinking feeling in his stomach, like the worst kind of dread multiplied. When he had nothing, he still had Zayn.

Maybe history repeating itself doesn’t stop with Harry walking out on him. Maybe there’s more to it than that.

Desperate and alone, Louis hears Jay’s words, knowing that the people you love really do hurt you the most. How can he be in this situation, lost and left behind, and _still_ feel a pang to see Zayn’s _name?_ How is it that after all this time convincing himself that he feels no remorse, that he doesn’t want anything to do with Zayn, that he could lose Harry – go through _hell_ and back – and yet, he _still_ feels worse without Zayn? He thought that something like this would put it all into perspective, and it has – but in a way he never could have predicted.

He’s calling Zayn back before he can even think it through. He doesn’t expect it to connect so quickly, and suddenly there’s no dial tone, no precious seconds to figure out what he’s supposed to say. Somehow he imagined it’d go right to voicemail, like it did at the beginning of the year, when Zayn took a flight out of Japan and never looked back. This time, Zayn answers within a heartbeat.

“Hello?” Zayn’s sluggishly cool voice greets. Louis almost forgot just how cavalier Zayn sounds, almost forgot that he’s still able to sift through the façade and detect the hint of nerves behind it all.

“Hi. It’s Louis.” He tries to say it nonchalantly, like one might greet an old friend – a casual acquaintance with whom no bad blood colours their history. Zayn _is_ an old friend, but somehow it comes across stale and awkward.

“Yeah,” Zayn answers, sounding a little out of breath. “I, err, I know. I have caller ID, Louis.”

“Right.” Louis curtly nods, cheeks flooding with warm embarrassment. “‘Course. Hello.” There’s a prolonged pause, one that sends prickling heat to Louis’ already flushed cheeks. “I’m in L.A.” He states dumbly. Zayn goes to reply; Louis can hear the intake of breath and the beginning of a syllable, but he interjects with, “At the Four Seasons. I need to talk to you, where are you?”

“Oh, erm,” Zayn hums thoughtfully, “I’m actually in the studio right now–”

“Oh.” Louis comes to his senses. He feels, in every sense, like a complete fool. “Don’t worry, then. Sorry for bothering you.”

“Louis, wait–”

Louis doesn’t. He listens to Zayn’s plea cut off with a strange satisfaction, but it’s not one that lasts long, because then he’s throwing his phone down in frustration, wondering to himself what the hell he’s supposed to do now.

He’s really starting to understand the phrase ‘expect the unexpected’ because it’s a surprise, then, when his phone rings, shrillness echoing through the room. He wants it to be Harry. Of course, it isn’t.

“It’s on Vine street – not far, yeah? 1750. Can’t miss it,” Zayn says, his voice somewhat casual, yet undoubtedly worried. “Come down, will you? Tell me what’s up.”

Louis pauses. There’s no use for pretences or charades, anymore. He’s tired and, the truth is, he misses his friend.

“Alright.”

# …

Louis never pictured himself here. The Capitol Records building is huge and reminds him more of a 60’s Malibu beachfront hotel than a multimillion dollar company. Yet, there’s a certain gravitas about the place – in the way it stands tall on the street corner, round and glaringly white in the Californian twilight. His heart feels tight under his shirt, and it’s only now that he is here that he realises who he’s going to see.

He travels to the seventh floor, feeling oddly as if he’s entering enemy territory. Not because Zayn turned his back on them, not because he signed a major deal here without them – but because Louis only knows a career with Syco, and though he has no loyalty toward anything associated with Simon Cowell, there’s a sense he’s crossing a line. It’s a strange thing to be focusing on, given everything that’s happening.

The studio is empty, and Louis wonders absentmindedly if Zayn always records like this, or if he told everyone to go home before he arrived. Whatever the case may be, Louis spots Zayn through the recording booth glass, wearing headphones and nodding to a silent beat.

Louis can’t bring himself to announce his presence, biting the inside of his cheek as he stands at the doorway awkwardly. He fleetingly considers leaving, unnoticed, before thinking better of it. He’s come all this way; he’s got absolutely nothing to lose. He’s not ghost for long – catching Zayn’s vision, watching as his estranged friend sends him a curt, weird smile that Louis registers as some attempt at a greeting.

There’s no hugging. That’s the one thing Louis knows they won’t do. In itself, that’s fairly uncomfortable, but no more so than if they’d feigned an intimacy that’s long gone. Even when they’d spend hours playing FIFA in the bus there was never more than a friendly camaraderie in their affection. Zayn and Louis just weren’t huggers. Zayn does teeter on the edge of… _something,_ though. Louis isn’t quite sure what. So instead he stands there with pity in his eyes and apprehension slung upon his lean shoulders. _Lean_ , Louis notes, _but not unhealthily so_. Not like before. That’s yet another thing that Harry was right about.

“Hey, man.” Zayn says, with a ghost of a polite smile, “Been a while.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Louis trails off, hearing the hoarseness of his voice as it comes out a lot shakier than he wants. He feels Harry beside him, a trace of that night before the kiss on the way home. He feels his warm hand loop in his, guide him away from the stuff Louis wasn’t ready to face. He flexes his hand, shaking the remnants of the touch with a shove of his fists into his jacket pockets. “Definitely has.”

Silence.

Zayn’s Doc Martens knock together habitually as he goes to scratch an itch at the back of his neck. With his sleeves rolled up, Louis notes a distinct crowding of space on his skin. He’s got new tattoos on both arms, covering him in ink. With a strange pang, Louis wonders if there’s room for _Bus 1_ on this version of Zayn standing before him. He’s too afraid to look close enough and find out.

“It’s good to see you.” Louis perks up, because he knows Zayn well enough to realise he’s not finding it easy to carry the conversation. He hopes Zayn can detect the sincerity in the remark, because it’s there; even if it is layered under quite a bit of forced civility.

“Yeah, bro, you too.” Zayn says, looking relieved to be given something to talk about. Still, there’s a nervousness about him, and judging by the fact that he called after the pictures of Louis and Harry were leaked, it’s expectant, too. Like he’s waiting for Louis to explain why today, of all days, he’s here – why he found it within him to reach out and make the effort that he’s not done all year. Louis doesn’t blame him; he hasn’t totally got the answers himself. “Err, why don’t we hang out in the recordin’ booth?” He asks, gesturing behind him. “There’s really comfy chairs.” He tries for a huffed smile, looking only slightly mortified by his lame remark.

“Sure, yeah.”

“How’ve… you been?” Zayn asks, the door closed and the sound of his voice crisp in the soundproof padded walls. Louis knows what he’s really asking, and he stumbles a moment to figure out which direction he wants this encounter to take.

“Uh… alright, yeah. And you?” He hates the formality of it, hates that mere months ago, he would be exchanging lavish details about the ins and outs of his day with Zayn over a cigarette and a packet of crisps. Better yet, Zayn didn’t even need to be told most of the time, having witnessed it first hand, Louis’ partner in crime for what he thought would be years to come.

Zayn nods appreciatively, bottom lip jutted ever so slightly to suggest he’s mulling it over.

“Yeah, same ol’ to be honest…” He answers, trying to downplay, Louis is sure of it. One doesn’t just leave the biggest boy band in the world to end up doing ‘the same old’. Zayn seems to recognise that, as an afterthought, and decides to elaborate, “Been writin’. _A lot_ , actually.”

“Yeah?” Louis’ voice raises in octave, trying desperately to fight every burning instinct to make a snide remark, trying to put out the jealous fire in his belly. “Liam mentioned that a bit… err,” He clears his throat, frowning in what he hopes is a sincere concentration, “You’ve got an album comin’ up haven’t you?”

Appearing outwardly surprised, Zayn nods in agreement. “Yeah,” And then there’s some sort of light bulb that’s gone off in his head, a dim one, but bright enough that Louis can tell he’s grateful to be spoken to with respect over such a sensitive subject. “S’hopefully gonna be out early next year, but…” he shrugs, looking off to the side, too nervous to meet Louis’ eyes fully. “Y’know, s’bit different to what I’m used to. Just takin’ it slow, really.”

Louis nods somewhat vacantly. Finding himself here, sitting beside Zayn and talking about his upcoming debut album, is beyond surreal. There’s an ache in his chest when he involuntarily thinks of how proud Harry would be to see him right now. Remembering Harry hurts, and he shoves it to the back of his mind almost as quickly as it surfaced.

“Makes sense,” Louis finally says, eyes glassy before he refocuses them. “And you’re… enjoying it, then?” he asks. He’s not sure why he says it, hadn’t even totally been conscious of his curiosity to know. Nevertheless, Louis finds himself in a different place than he was last he spoke to Zayn. Maybe the months have healed him more than he thought. Or maybe losing Harry just numbs everything that used to seem so damn important. It’s as if the anger he felt toward Zayn is entirely frivolous, now.

“ _Yeah_ ,” The infliction in Zayn’s voice is soft and emotional. He’s not holding back, now, though it’s tentatively raw. “ _Man_ , it’s… been honestly incredible,” He tells Louis, looking at him with wide eyes and a spark Louis knows dulled some toward the end of his time with One Direction. The last time Louis saw Zayn speak with the same enthusiasm, it was about Power Rangers, for God’s sake. Zayn isn’t even an externally enthusiastic person, and yet there’s something soaked in the very way he pronounces each word that just speaks volumes of energy. “Getting to write my own stuff is just… liberatin’,” he explains, before losing some of his gumption, or perhaps feeling as if he’s somehow being insensitive. “I dunno.”

“Show us, then.” Louis says, surprising even himself at how relaxed he sounds. He feels sort of bad for the look of complete gobsmacked shock on Zayn’s face, as if he can’t even believe his ears. That would be a fair judgement to make, if Louis is honest, considering the last they spoke of Zayn’s solo career Louis was anything but relaxed. Drunk at the time, he can barely remember the cruel words he snidely spoke, grateful that Harry was able to pull him away before things got even uglier. Grateful that Harry was able to make sitting with Zayn now just that bit easier.

 _Fuck. Harry._ No matter what Louis focuses his thought process on, it always comes back to those green eyes and curly locks. He won’t ever escape them, for as long as he lives. He’s going to try, though, just for however long he can today.

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, looking almost shy. “You serious?”

Louis lets out an awkward, sheepish laugh. “Yeah, why not?”

“Alrigh’.”

Louis grapples with the truth in his mind for the time it takes for Zayn to set up the demo. He’s on the verge of announcing it – just wanting everyone to know how his life has turned to shit – especially Zayn. He just wants Zayn to know, and he hates that he’s back here again, with not a lot different to the first time he told him about things with Harry. Whenever he indulged the whimsical idea of a reconciliation with Zayn, it was always by Harry’s side. Holding his hand and smiling in that chuffed, smug way he smiles when he’s showing people how lucky he is. He wanted to be at a better place, maybe, so he could feel like he’d won some unofficial feud of who’s doing better without the other in their lives. But he’s just so exhausted, so sick of playing games. He wants more than anything to just let it all tumble out, let Zayn’s face fall with sympathy, let himself be vulnerable. There’s not anything more vulnerable than having your heart broken, after all; and perhaps he should just accept it, rather than fight it.

He doesn’t say it, though. Not yet. He lets himself exist in the in-between – neither with nor without Harry in the eyes of Zayn, who aside from clues here and there over the months and years, would be none the wiser to Louis and Harry’s whirlwind love affair.

“Grey hair. That’s new.” Louis notes, the words coming out far less smooth and conversational than he planned, but they get the point across. He’s filling the silence while Zayn sits in front of the control panel, lights glowing and numbers counting on the screen.

“Hmm? Oh,” Zayn laughs breathily, “Yeah, what d’you think? Did it last week. Goes kinda blue in some light,” He shrugs, letting fingers tussle the top, which is styled upward – short and _very_ Zayn. He always used to say he wanted to do something colourful and different with his hair. Leaving the band gave him a lot more personal freedom than Louis ever expected.

“Quicksilver vibes,” Louis raises his eyebrows, managing a slight flare of his cheerful regular self, no matter how short-lived, “Suits you.”

Zayn laughs, tongue at his teeth and eyes crinkled. It eases Louis, surprisingly, to see that genuine smile. “Thanks, man.” There’s a pause, Zayn’s fingers on the dial, waiting for something. “Erm, so I’ll show you this one. Pretty rough at the moment…” he trails off, biting his lower lip nervously. “It’s called _Golden_.”

The first thought Louis has when Zayn clicks play and the moody instrumental begins, is how different this music already is to everything they’ve done with One Direction. If he had to compare it, he’d say it’s the closest to _Fool’s Gold_ or _What a Feeling_ off their new record. Even then, that’s a stretch. In actuality, it couldn’t be further from the stuff the band produces, and it clicks in Louis’ head that this is what Zayn is supposed to be doing.

> _The choices we make change the path that we take_
> 
> _But I know_
> 
> _That somewhere out there there’s a path that we chose_
> 
> _There’s a life that we share, there’s a love and it grows_

It’s not good for his post-Harry heart to hear the lyrics resonating around him, singing of love and loss. The words are profound, and they settle in Louis’ mind

> _It goes and it’s golden like sands of time_
> 
> _I hope and I hope you’ll still be fine_
> 
> _I know that it’s bright_
> 
> _Look through the light and see, it’s meant to be_

Louis hasn’t ever heard Zayn’s voice sound so smooth and nostalgic. He’s singing about the end of something important, but Louis isn’t sure what. If he didn’t know Zayn any better, he’d say it’s about Perrie or some other ex-lover. He’s sure when the song is released, that’s exactly how the press will paint it – a mournful goodbye to a lost love. Louis thinks One Direction – the boys Zayn left behind – are sort of like a lost love. And actually, it’s not as mournful as it seems, to begin with. There’s a lot of finality in the lyrics, sure, but there’s plenty of hope, too.

The song comes to a close and Louis finds himself staring into space.

“That’s… that’s sick, Z.” He finds himself complementing, refocusing his eyes from their pinpoint gaze. “Really cool shit.”

“You think so?” Zayn’s eyes are glistening, wide and expectant. Being here is doing just as much good for Zayn as it is Louis.

“Yes, really good.”

“Thanks, Louis. I’ve been working really hard, y’know, long hours… but it’s startin’ to come together.”

“You should be proud of yourself.”

Zayn fidgets awkwardly, poorly disguising his surprise at Louis’ civility. Even when they were at their closest, Louis never really made the effort to be so sincerely sentimental, never made the leap into emotional compliments. It always lurked there, in the unspoken understanding, yet never directly addressed like this. So Louis isn’t really taken aback then, when Zayn’s face turns to that of concern.

“Erm, Louis,” Zayn begins, voice quirking into a question, “I have to ask…” he trails off, sort of wincing at the awkwardness of the situation. “Why’d you call?” There’s no malice in his question, just a simple curiosity dipped in something a bit heavier.

Louis swallows deeply. “You called me on Saturday.” He doesn’t mean for the defensiveness. It’s there anyway.

“I know I did, but…” Zayn huffs. “I was worried about you, man,” he shrugs, and Louis doesn’t have to guess why. If everyone else had seen the pictures from the gay club, Zayn sure as hell must’ve. There’s a pause, then Zayn changes tune slightly and adds, “You look tired. I just want to know if you’re alrigh’.”

“I know,” Louis sighs, feeling there’s no use in hiding his true motives, “I’m… the thing is, I’m _really_ not.” He tries for a tight-lipped smile, and he’s sure it turns out more like a grimace.

Zayn’s expression shifts minutely; slightly stonier, increasingly concerned. He sits forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at Louis intently.

“Don’t really know where to begin,” Louis continues, huffing and folding his arms. His heart is beating incessantly in his chest and his mouth feels dry. “Err – well, you know, things with Harry; they’ve never been… simple, have they?”

“No, suppose not.” Zayn accommodates, not prodding or prompting, simply guiding Louis to open up the way he wants to, on his terms.

“I think, for a bit there it was… gettin’ easy. Easier. I don’t know. It made _sense_ , all of it.” Louis breathes in, breathes out. “Now it’s… really fucking not again. Maybe it wasn’t ever easy and I just messed it all up, for the second time.”

“Righ’…” Zayn trails off, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly to suggest just a hint of confusion. Who can blame the man, Louis is hardly explaining the situation clearly.

Louis wonders what Zayn must think. Is he surprised the reason Louis looks haggard; darkened circles under his eyes and a disheartened air, is because of Harry Styles? Is he remembering the night at Rita’s, when Louis was sure he caught a glimpse of his and Harry’s hands entwined? Did he see the pictures, and did all of it just come together, like Louis is sure it did for the millions of others that saw it for themselves?

No, Louis doesn’t really think so. It all came together for Zayn when it did for Louis, years and years ago. Time and distance won’t change the fact that Zayn knows Louis’ heart.

“Something shit happened with him and me. Like,” Louis raises his eyebrows, clicking his tongue with worked up energy. “Really fucking shit. And I don’t really know what the hell I’m supposed to do. Because we figured it all out and we were actually happy… _deeply in love_ and then… then I lost it.”

Zayn mulls that over for a moment.

“Let’s go for a drive, yeah?”  

“What?” Louis quips, snapped from his thoughtful daze, everything in front of him returning to a sharp focus. Zayn’s expression is unreadable and Louis searches it for some sort of explanation that he knows Zayn won’t offer in words.

“Come on. We’ll go get somethin’ to eat or just… get some air.” He shrugs.

“You can’t drive.” Louis says, focusing on _that,_ of all things, though he’s not entirely sure why.

Zayn’s already rising to his feet when he answers, “Nah, I got my license.”

Louis isn’t sure what to say to that, a little taken aback at the reminder of how much time they’ve spent apart – how little Louis knows of the post-One Direction Zayn Malik.

“Oh.” He sounds, hesitantly standing up. “In that case…” Where he was going with that sentence, he’s not sure. Thankfully, Zayn doesn’t wait for him to conclude it, heading for the door and expecting Louis to follow.

The whole thing is odd, and it’s not until Louis is sitting next to Zayn in the driver’s seat and the ignition is spluttering to a start, does he voice this fact.

“S’bit weird, isn’t it?” Louis says, trying to make light of it, missing the mark only a fraction so that the statement of the obvious falls flat in the space between himself and Zayn.

Zayn glances at Louis for a second before concentrating on driving.

“You didn’t have to point it out, though, did ya?” There’s a ghost of a smirk in the smile lines at his eyes and the corner of his lips.

“Sorry.” Louis goes quiet, feeling his cheeks flush with colour. “You drivin’ is makin’ me nervous,” he offers as his reasoning, pointing vaguely at Zayn in the driver’s seat. “Who’d you have to bribe to get your license, anyway?”

Zayn laughs breathily, turning the wheel at ease as they start down a new street.  

“No one,” he answers coolly, “Actually had time to make an effort with my drivin’ lessons this time.”

Louis raises his eyebrows, impressed. Then he goes back to being quiet, tapping his palms against his jean-clad legs.

“I guess it is weird.” Zayn allows after a beat, scrunching his nose up. “Like ‘avin’ you here and stuff.”

“I, err, honestly didn’t think it’d happen.” Louis says, feeling now is the time, after blatantly ignoring it, to address the elephant in the room. Or, rather, the very well-trained elephant sitting patiently in the backseat of Zayn’s shiny black Bentley.

“Me, neither.” Zayn is either very dedicated to driving carefully, or using it as an excuse not to make eye contact for long. He bites his lower lip, brushes his cupid’s bow with a swoop of his finger, before it finds the wheel again. “Last we spoke you _really_ didn’t like me.”

Louis lets out a forced laugh, because he needs to; because talking about such heavy things must be followed up with canned laughter or else the trip will become far too dark far too quickly. It’s not a bark or cackle, but something a little quieter, more passable as genuine. As the nature is, though, with unnatural laughter, it evaporates quickly.

“Yeah, yeah… see how you might’ve come to that conclusion,” Louis says, trying for sarcasm, because a blind man could have seen the sheer hatred radiating from Louis that night at Rita’s party.

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Zayn asks, getting to a crossing and able to take his eyes off the road long enough for a serious exchange, before looking ahead again. “My guess is you still don’t like me much.”

Louis makes a noncommittal, undecided sort of noise. “Just more complicated than that, though, mate.”

“Always is.” Zayn muses, again, not looking at Louis. If Louis hadn’t already lost any ability to care about Zayn’s devil-may-care attitude, a comment like that might’ve peeved him.

There’s not… tension, exactly, in the air. At least not enough that Louis could grab his metaphorical knife to cut it with. If anything, the awkwardness seems to dissipate the more they embrace it. Whatever _is_ in the air, though - it’s not hostile, and it leaves room for a discussion Louis doesn’t think can end nearly as abruptly and horribly as the last they attempted this.

“I said a lot of things that I didn’t mean…” Louis trails off, not looking at Zayn directly, because admitting something like this is hard enough as it is. Instead, he looks straight ahead at the road as it winds and turns, at the green and red and yellow lights on the corner and the people who cross when the car stops at an intersection. His face scrunches up sceptically and he shrugs, “Well, I guess I did mean a lot of it. But some of it, just… wasn’t true at all.” After he speaks, he does look at Zayn. Sees reflected the same sort of dawning realization of _we’re really going_ there, _huh?_ In downtown L.A., with the sun only dimmed in short intervals behind clouds, and the air con breeze at Louis’ cheeks, and Harry pushed to the back of Louis’ mind for the first time in over 24 hours whilst Zayn puts his indicator on – _Apparently so_ , Louis thinks. _We’re going there._

“I was angry with you for ages,” Zayn responds, matching Louis’ light tone. The contrast between the weight of their words and their casual demeanors is startling. “That you didn’t… _get it_ , y’know? That you weren’t on my side.” He swallows deeply, meeting Louis’ eyes with a darkened expression. “But like… in the end, I didn’t _need_ for you to get it.” Zayn waits for Louis’ reaction, his leg jittering from nerves.

That is a lot, in and of itself, to hear. It’s the most Zayn has spoken to Louis in months. It’s the most he’s ever spoken about leaving the band since the night it happened and they all sat down demanding answers. And, most importantly, it makes the most sense. So instead of interjecting, Louis stays quiet, and waits for Zayn to say more.

“Staying as long as I did…” Zayn does eventually continue, taking great length and care in deciding that he would. “I came to resent a lo’ of things I shouldn’t’ve. Made me lash out at you. At the rest of the boys. You were like brothers. I never had friends like that before.” He pauses, allowing the silence for them both to reflect on that. “I didn’t know leaving the band meant leaving all of you for good.”

“It’s… hard for me to talk about it,” Louis answers, and he’s sure that’s obvious in the hoarseness of his voice. “You must’ve known, with the way everythin’ was handled toward the end, there… things weren’t just goin’ to be the same for the five of us. You’re not an idiot,” There’s an edge to that last part, and Louis makes a point of collecting himself before continuing, “In a lot of ways, yeah, it was a fuckin’ betrayal and… it sucked.” He stops, contemplates. “It’s hard not to take that stuff personally.”

Zayn really thinks about that for a long time. It’s not a revelation – this isn’t news to either of them. Enough of this has been said, in varying degrees of spite and resentment over the course of the year. Some has been splashed across tabloid after tabloid, a watered down version of what’s actually real, diluting the people at the root of it, simply for a scandalous headline.  

“What you have to understand is…” Zayn says in a levelled tone, “In the end it was you lot or me. I had to choose me.”

Louis knows he should have seen it that way before. And in some ways, he’s sure he has, even if for a fleeting second as he lay in bed at night those weeks after Zayn’s departure, trying to wrack his brains. He should have listened more carefully to Zayn’s cries for help. Maybe they were so subtle Louis didn’t get a chance to really face them head on; sighed out through nicotine lips, rubbed from tired eyes on stage or after a show, sunk deep into the skin that whittled away to a frame of Zayn’s former self.

“I’m sorry.” Louis says into the silence, crisp and finite. He means it, too. Not in the way Zayn might think, though. He’s never going to be sorry for the way he had to mourn their friendship. He’s never going to regret having to keep that distance and even acting a little petty at times. He’s not sorry for angry crying about it a week after Zayn left, seven whole days since their last conversation, the reality of it hitting him in a delayed tidal wave of sadness. He’s not sorry for being fine for weeks on end, only to snap at Liam or Niall (or even Harry) over the smallest thing, just because it reminded him of Zayn. He’s not even sorry for hating Zayn – even just a little – still to this day, for walking out on them.

He _is_ sorry, though. He’s sorry that it all happened in the first place. That Zayn was trapped in a life not built for him. That there was no way out but to run.

Louis doesn’t want to fight with Zayn anymore, if you can call months of stone cold silence and the occasional Twitter spat ‘fighting’. And, oddly enough, Louis does - because rattled to the bone with exhaustion, he’s forfeiting.

“What I mean is,” Louis clears his throat, “I’m sorry you had to do that. It’s… you know. It would’ve been a hard decision. I don’t think I ever fully… gave you credit for how hard that really must’ve been to do.”

Zayn nods his head slowly as he processes Louis’ apology. By the look on his face, he never expected closure to come so clean and easy. Neither had Louis, if he’s honest.

“I’m sorry, too,” Zayn offers, “Sorry that I wasn’t cut out for it like the rest of you.” He shrugs with a crooked sad smile and a sincerity in his words. It’s the apology Louis didn’t even know he needed, until it’s ringing in his ears, resonating more clearly than anything else Zayn could have said. After all, Louis didn’t come here today to bid forgiveness. He didn’t seek Zayn out in order to make him renounce some sort of blame for this mess they’ve been lying in together all these months. If this were March again, maybe that’d be exactly what Louis would want – Zayn to feel guilt and regret over his actions. That just cannot be said for the Louis of August, though.

“I don’t… regret it,” Zayn speaks again, refocusing Louis to the moment, “Bein’ in the band. Any of it. M’not just sayin’ that, either. I really mean it. I want you to know that, Louis.”

Louis nods vehemently, feeling a wave of emotion flood through him.

“I know.” He says then, voice raspy and thick with how deeply moved he is. “Thanks, Zayn. Thank you, err, it’s good to hear.”

In a way, both Louis and Zayn are men of few words. Louis can count the amount of personal, long chats they’ve had on one hand over the years they’ve known each other. Emotional support didn’t always come naturally from speaking their minds, though there was that, too. Most of the time Louis felt closest to Zayn when they could just sit and appreciate the words that never made it out of their mouths. There’s a lot to be said about a friendship like that, especially for someone like Louis, who on most days can’t shut up if his life depended on it. He’d almost forgotten what a calm presence Zayn is; cannot believe he went so long without it.

# …

Some time later, with not much else said – when the light of day has faded enough that Zayn’s headlights beam ahead on the road and the neon signs in the city are beginning to brighten everything – the car pulls up in a part of the boulevard Louis has never been to.

Stomach gurgling, Louis skeptically watches the mansion expand in the side window as they drive closer.

“Err, Zayn… you alright, mate?” he asks with an incredulous laugh, turning his attention to his friend. Zayn doesn’t respond, giving Louis a funny look. “This isn’t exactly the shops, is it?” Louis elaborates, hand raised in gesture to the Hollywood mansion before them.

“Oh,” Zayn huffs a light laugh, “Righ’, yeah. Change of plans.” He says it with an edge, like maybe he’s nervous, like he knows there’s importance weighing in what he’ll say next. It makes Louis’ stomach squirm uncomfortably. “I think this is where Harry is.”

“What?” Louis answers involuntarily, and of course his heartbeat quickens.

“I talked to Liam on the phone this morning. I didn’t say earlier because…” Zayn shrugs. “It didn’t seem the right thing at the time.”

Louis isn’t sure if Zayn continues to explain himself or not. There must be more to the story – like how Liam knows where Harry is, or what Zayn has heard of how Harry is feeling. Zayn might even explain whether he took them for a drive on a whim, or planned this from the very beginning. Had he ever really meant they’d go to a drive-in and get fries? Probably not, Louis contemplates. He’s not sure because his ears begin to ring, and everything gets a little cloudy except the image of Harry, and the knowledge that he could be mere metres from him this very moment.

“Louis?” Zayn asks, probably because Louis’ eyes have glazed over.

“Harry.” Louis states dumbly in response. “Here?”

“Yeah…” Zayn trails off, watching Louis with concern. “I just thought… we can leave, if you don’t want–”

“No,” Louis curtly cuts him off. “ _No_ ,” He nods his head, processing the information. “Shit. I just didn’t _expect_ …”

“I know, man. Sorry ‘bout springing it on you. We can go back to the studio, or… I could drive you to wherever you’re staying. If you’re not up to it.”

“What good would that do?” Louis asks, not viciously, not rhetorically – genuinely and desperately needing someone to give him answers, because for the life of him he can’t come up with them on his own.  

“Can’t say,” Zayn shrugs, exuding an elegant casualness, hiding the touch of empathy Louis knows is behind his brooding eyes. “Except that you’ll know that you tried, yeah?”

Louis spends the walk to the front door concentrating far too closely on the exterior of the mansion. It juts out onto the Hollywood hills, the very definition of prime real estate to the extent that Louis imagines the cement path beneath his feet must be cut from diamond. The pristine front is surrounded by low growing shrubbery that must be hell to upkeep. Louis might’ve rolled his eyes if he had any attitude left in him right now, at the very idea of paying someone to water his plants. He’d rather just let them shrivel up and die than get a gardener. He’ll never be _that_ sort of rich person.

Then Louis remembers exactly why he’s here, among the professionally gardened bushes and obscenely close view of the Hollywood sign. His mind drifts from watering plants after that.

Neither Zayn nor Louis expect Harry to answer the door. Louis’ brain doesn’t process fast enough to figure out who exactly he does think will answer the door, but it definitely isn’t Harry. He thinks of Nick or Liam, because he knows those are people Harry must’ve turned to in the past twenty-four hours. He even envisions Anne, oddly enough. There’s a split second he pictures a faceless, leggy blonde – some relative of the Moss family or rather; Louis can’t really keep up with Harry’s endless pretty connections, but he’s sure any one of them would fit quite nicely in a place like this.

Harry looks how Louis feels. His usually luscious, shining curls of hair have lost their gleam. The volume has been reduced to a flat, unkempt head of hair pulled back into a half-arsed bun. He is slouching like he hasn't slept, and judging by the deep, dark circles under his eyes, Louis can guess that's probably not far from the truth. It almost feels as if there should be a stormy rain cloud above Harry's head to signify the dreariness of his state.

Seeing him like that is almost worse than not seeing him at all. Because the second Louis drinks Harry in – in full – he has to fight every instinct in his body that tells him to close the short space between them and engulf the man he loves in a hug. A big, warm hug that might actually bring back the life in Harry's cheeks.

Louis isn’t even conscious of moving until Zayn’s arm is pressing gently into his shoulders, preventing him from stepping any further back.

“C’mon.” Zayn mutters so only Louis can hear, though his attention is unwaveringly upon Harry – their eyes glued across the short space separating them.  

Louis figures out how to thank Zayn, though it’s monotonous and poorly executed. Zayn just nods his head appreciatively and before Louis knows it, his reunion with his ex-friend is over. Later, he’ll have to rethink that title. He’s started to think it already doesn’t really apply to Zayn anymore.

Right now, though, all he can focus on is Harry and the fact that the look upon his face, aside from utterly exhausted, is unreadable. It shifts slightly in Zayn’s wake, trailing after the silver haired man as he returns to his car, before his nervous gaze flicks back to Louis’ stony one. Louis makes the mistake of waiting for Harry to greet him properly and invite him in – it doesn’t happen. Instead, he’s forced to take in a humiliating and shaky breath, just so he can pluck up the courage to walk past Harry and into the house.

“You look like crap.” Louis says as a fly-away comment, meandering through the hall and into the large living room. He’s assaulted with the glass walls that expose just how expansive a view there is of the valley, more so than Louis could have predicted from the outside looking in. He doesn’t turn back to see Harry’s reaction, simply judging by the silence that it cannot be good. He can’t bring himself to look at Harry at the moment, not when it’s taking everything within him just to form basic sentences, just to put one foot in front of the other without dissolving into a puddle of tears.  

When he finally does it – the _looking at Harry thing_ – it’s interrupted by the high pitched tapping of heels against shining marble; suddenly they’ve got company.

“H, who was that at the–” Shiny dark hair flicks out of her line of vision, Kendall looking up from fiddling with her bracelet. “Oh,” she almost gasps, pausing as she enters the room. She looks between Louis and Harry, the pair standing rigidly and uncomfortably apart, before she manages to speak again. “I’m gonna… go.”

“No, Ken, you don’t have to–” Harry interjects, the first thing he’s said in the five minutes since Louis arrived. The first thing Louis has heard him speak since he was saying goodbye for good. No amount of preparation could have stifled the visceral reaction within Louis at hearing Harry speak.

“I’ll be back later,” Kendall insists, one eyebrow arched as if in question. She steps forward, swoops up the keys from the nearest table top and makes to leave. “Call me, or– whatever,” She fumbles over her words, lips tugging down and brows furrowed. “Good luck?” she tacks on awkwardly, and if it weren’t for her perfectly applied foundation, she may have blushed.

Now Harry and Louis truly are alone; their respective support abandoning them to fend for themselves. That’s how it feels to Louis, anyway, unprepared and progressively agitated in this big, white house. _Really fucking white_ , he thinks to himself – glancing around at the marble floors and the cream walls. _Why do Californians paint everything in boring neutrals?_  

So Louis sits on the ( _of course_ ) _white_ leather couch and stares right ahead at the late afternoon sunshine, when, inside, he feels it should be dark and gloomy with a spot of rain (or perhaps a downpour. In fact, on second thought, he’d _love_ a flood right about now).

Harry eventually sits beside him, making a point of placing himself so that there’s three inches separating them. The single gesture brings an assault of memories to the forefront of Louis’ mind – of Harry giggling over something Louis said, falling onto the couch at home and nearly crushing Louis in the process; of Louis sitting on Harry’s lap during a film; of their hands grasped tight the morning their forever started, having no concept of it coming to an end.

“If we’re just going to sit in silence, I could have done this back at the bloody hotel.” Louis quips after withstanding the quiet for no more than several seconds. The air is sticky with it – that silence – and Louis suffocates under it.

He’s in the process of getting to his feet when Harry cuts across with, “ _No_ – fuck. Louis,” Which is enough to stop Louis’ movements instantly, freezing mid-rise as he watches the conflicted, almost tortured look on Harry’s face. “I just didn’t want to go first. I didn’t know if that was entitled, or,” Harry searches for the right word, huffing and adding, “Shitty of me, or not.” He shrugs, coldly or guiltily or _something_ , Louis can’t place it. Regardless, Louis slowly sits back down, holding Harry’s imploring gaze.  

“Better than saying nothing at all, Harry.” Louis replies, more saddened now that he’s looking at Harry properly.

Harry closes his eyes slowly, nodding. “Okay. I get that now.”

“So talk.” Louis snaps, coming across a lot more viciously than how he feels inside, like a wounded animal – he’s scared, and overwhelmed, and–

Swallowing heavily, Harry hesitantly speaks, “Alright, uhm…” He’s twisting his hands nervously, and Louis observes that he isn’t wearing his usual array of rings; not like yesterday. “I feel I owe you an apology. More than that, I owe you… just, respect.” Harry’s bottom lip is jutted and he shrugs – not casually, but with a disheartened air. “And decency.”

“Actually,” Louis interjects, squinting slightly. His whole body itches with nerves, his mind racing trying to figure out what Harry’s tone and expression might mean. “S’best if I go first.” He takes in a shaking breath, looking at his lap and rubbing his palms into his thighs, feeling them burn against denim. “So, err, yeah. This is fucking shit. And weird, and really crap.”

Harry nods shakily, eyes glassy and jaw locked. Louis makes the mistake of lingering upon that expression, watching the glazed eyes well up.

“God,” Louis curses, turning away the second a tear runs uninterrupted down Harry’s flushed cheek. “Please don’t fucking _cry_ , that’s just… _fuck_.” He sucks in a breath. “I can’t stand this if you’re going to cry.”  

“Shit. I’m sorry,” Harry says in a defeated voice, hastily wiping the welling of his eyes. “That’s not fair of me.”

“None of this is _fair_ , H.”

“You’re right.” Harry’s voice is impossibly small, his head hung so low that if his hair was out of its bun, it’d hang in curtains around his face. Unfortunately, it’s pulled back, and Louis can see the full force of emotion crossing Harry’s features.

“None of this was supposed to happen.” Louis exclaims, on the edge of his seat as he swivels to face Harry front on.

“I know.” Harry’s bottom lip is wobbling; Louis wants to be sick.

“ _Do you_ , Harry?” Louis asks skeptically. “I’m not sure you really get it. We’ve broken up. We’re _exes_ now. Is that what you really want?”

At the word ‘exes’, or maybe ‘broken up’ – Louis isn’t entirely sure – Harry stops trying to suppress the tears. Now they run freely down his face, turning his cheeks red and blotchy, shining with a wet, constant stream. He shakes his head glumly, not meeting Louis’ eyes; his bloodshot green ones glued to the floor.

“You can’t cry!” Louis bellows, his own eyes prickling with those awful pre-tears. He hates it. “You did this! _You cannot cry_.” He says it again, so that Harry might listen, so the snot won’t run down his cupid’s bow and his face might return to its former light complexion. If anything, Louis’ vehemence triggers a bigger onslaught of emotion from Harry; who, in taking in a large breath, clutches the couch either side of him with ferocity.

“I made a mistake,” Harry says, voice thick and low. He’s staring miserably at Louis, whose eyes fall to Harry’s plump lips, even redder and fuller when they’re being tugged into a soft wail. “A stupid, mindless mistake.”

Harry’s words don’t dull the ache in Louis’ chest, nor the fear at what part of the break up was a ‘mistake’.

“Harry.” Louis warns, wanting to be able to find it in him to detach, to work through this hell without feeling so goddamn emotionally invested at the same time. He wishes he could step aside and be an observer; judge Harry’s crying and Louis’ raised voice and make sense of it all. But he’s Louis – he’s in the very thick of it – and there’s no way analytics and logic can be applied to how he feels about Harry. “Harry, please, _please stop_.” This time his pleas are soft, hoarse, and he doesn’t notice himself inch closer.

“I don’t want this,” Harry shakes his head, hands moving from the couch and elbows digging into his thighs, verging on a complete melt down. “Please, Lou,” His eyes are wide and shining, not in that gorgeous, sparkly way Louis is used to seeing, though. This version of Harry’s gleam is a beautiful tragedy. “Tell me how I can fix it.”

“I–” Louis’ mouth is too dry to complete the sentence, staring open-mouthed at Harry, feeling a flood of pain coursing through his veins. “I don’t know.” He whispers, brows furrowed and tears – fucking stupid unwanted tears – sliding down his cheeks now. That seems like the worst thing Louis could say, judging by the pained groan escaping Harry, sniffling loudly and closing his eyes, edging off the couch and sinking onto the floor. Louis doesn’t hesitate in following, landing on his knees just an inch from Harry, slumped and sobbing as quietly as ever, almost as if he doesn’t want Louis to hear.

“I love you,” Harry mumbles, and Louis never thought he’d hear him say it like that. “ _Oh, God_ , I do. I love you,” He slackens, head dipped and voice trembling. “I love you.”

Louis can’t take Harry saying that over and over, through tears and avoided eyes. He doesn’t know what’s going on, in Harry’s head or in his own, even. So he ignores all of it, and does what he feels is right – closing the short space between them and enveloping Harry in a tight, anchoring hug. Harry’s body tenses for a second, unprepared for the physical contact, before Louis feels his forehead dig into the dip of his shoulder, feels Harry’s hands clutch around him for dear life. There they stay – crying and holding each other on the floor of Kendall Jenner’s living room, light shining around them, their bodies in shadow, silhouettes as one. The whole thing feels suspended in time; an Earth-stopping love.

“Everythin’ I said…” Louis manages to begin, sifting through the white noise in his brain to pluck out the things that really matter. “‘Bout the pat scandal idea, and about bein’ _fine_ with it…” he swallows deeply, “That wasn’t real. That wasn’t _me._ ” His brows knit tightly and his words come out fierce and low. “To be frank, I don’t…” he stares off, shaking his head. “Really don’t fuckin’ get how you thought that could _ever_ be me.” He pauses, “You’ve got to pick your battles, sometimes. I should’ve spoken to you about it – I know that now – but I was just…” he shrugs. “Picking our battle, I guess.”  

Harry breathes in gasps against Louis’ chest, his quivering hands moving to hold onto whatever part of Louis he can, as close to him as he can. It’s clear that everything has come between them; from the break-up, from the leaked pictures. Even before that – on tour when hiding their love was harder than ever and all they could do was exchange saddened smiles before parting ways, plastering on something fake and plastic, savoring any fleeting moment they could share. It’s risen within both their rib cages, banging and screaming. They ignored it too long, pressed on relentlessly, and now – now they are here.

Louis goes to speak again, too moved by the boy in his arms that he just stays with mouth open and tears blinding; blinking them away, just so he can see better.

With a jerk, Harry lifts his head up, eyes wide and red, staring Louis’ down. He’s inches from him when he manages to voice his thoughts.  

“I wasn’t even myself when I did it,” he says imploringly, rushing to explain without thinking clearly, so that he blinks repeatedly and gulps back the lump in his throat. “My head was all over the place.” The way Harry talks – urgent and full of emotion – suggests that he’s been going over this in his mind relentlessly. Louis gets that – retracing the steps, pin-pointing what went wrong. “I got back to the hotel and it was almost like I’d spaced out completely. Like it wasn’t real…” He frowns intently before gulping and adding, “Til’ I saw your clothes on the bed and I just fell apart. I didn’t even know who to call or what the fuck I was going to do.”

Reliving the nightmare of their break up through Harry’s eyes brings on an all-consuming, heart-wrenching feeling in Louis’ chest. Not just that – it makes his blood pump harder and more panicked through his veins, prickling into his scalp and burning at his eyes. He blinks, but all that happens is a thick layer of blurring tears escaping down his cheeks and sticking to his lashes.

“I wanted to just come runnin’ back and fix it,” Harry’s lower lip is wobbling again at the sight of Louis crying. “But I’d done the unimaginable, and how could you ever forgive that?”

“Hey, no – hang on, though,” Louis allows, taking in a sharp breath. “You’d thought I’d done the unimaginable first, remember?” He pauses, wiping his face. “We didn’t talk. This is what happens when we don’t _bloody talk_. ‘Cause it’s okay when the goin’ gets tough. It’s not doomed to admit that it’s hard. It _is_ hard,” Harry nods numbly, eyes unfocused but presence undeniably fixed, attention on Louis. “Being in the closet is fuckin’ hard. And exhausting.”

“But even so,” Harry presses on with a frown, voice heavy with the lump in his throat. “Even if you had suddenly changed your mind. Even if coming out was never something you were ready for. I shouldn’t have given you that ultimatum like that, I…” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Obviously I can’t take it back; it was the shittiest shit thing. I just need you to know if I could, I would.” The tears start again, for both Harry and Louis, and somehow their hands are clasped, tight and whitening at the knuckles. “I was so afraid they’d ruin everything that I… I went and fucked it up all on my own.”

“ _Haz_ ,” Hands tightening; heart too. “You can’t say that. You haven’t– it’s not ruined. We’ve been through too much shit for it to be _that_ fragile, yeah?” Harry looks young when he hears that, like maybe he could be looking at the eighteen-year-old Louis. Lips shining with tears, lashes thick and stuck together. Just for a second – vulnerable and bright – and then he’s himself again.

“I’ll try to make it up to you, if…’ Harry chokes on his words, as if what he’s about to say is the hardest achievement for him to make, “If you’ll have me, that is.”

“Have _you?_ Don’t be silly,” Though Louis feels the silly one, with the attempted light tone, tears betraying how frantic his heart feels in the moment, like he just missed a bullet by millimetres, felt it scratch the surface of his skin, like maybe it left a mark - but not one that’ll last. “It’s you that has _me_ , always.”

Harry seems too overcome by Louis’ assurance to articulate what he’s feeling. Instead, his hands unwind from between their laps to find Louis’ cheeks and clutch them, firm but gentle. He places a slow and tender kiss between Louis’ furrowed brows, the gentle pressure smoothing the lines, softening Louis’ concern so that it melts into something calmer. Louis forehead stays here, magnetised, against Harry’s in the moments after, their shared warmth radiating in Louis’ cheeks and flushed across his entire face.

“S’just you and me, H.” Louis whispers, sniffling. “No one else decides what happens between us. No one in the whole fuckin’ world, yeah? _Universe_ even. Just you and me.”

“Yeah,” Harry answers dazedly, almost a whisper, “ _Yes_.”

“It’s a forever kind of deal we made, you know," Louis says, voice quivering back to life with the adrenaline and the relief of having Harry, of truly having him in his arms when just hours ago he thought it would be lost forever. There's a hoarseness in there too, a little broken by the entire experience, but so ready to put the pieces back together with Harry at his side. "Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeugh. I know, a fucking long chapter. I hope it didn't make you nap. Does it end too abruptly? I really struggled capping it off with finality so... Please comment and tell me what you think!
> 
> Y'all... I'm so lazy I don't really have references here. I am horrific. Please forgive me. All I have is:
> 
> • Zayn's hair was dyed a white/silver colour around this time of 2015 IRL  
> • Zayn really did learn to drive and got his license after he left One Direction  
> • The song is 'Golden' and it's on the bonus tracks of Zayn's Mind Of Mine album, just so happens to be the inspiration for this fic's title, and also one of my favourite songs!  
> • Kendall does have a Hollywood Hills' mansion but I haven't based the descriptions off of it


	13. Alive

_'We’ve got to live before we get older. Do what we like, we’ve got nothing to lose. Shake off the weight of the world from your shoulders, oh, we got nothing to prove.'_

“Can we stop talkin’ about Modest?” Niall groans, giving Liam a pointed look, exasperated.

“What?” Liam rebuts, frowning intently from across the cabin. “It’s important!” He even makes a point of looking to Harry and Louis sidled up, as if wordlessly asking for their allegiance. “I’m just saying, once all the paperwork is done, we won’t have to think about it at all – but right now, we do.”

“Sure, but _right now?_ ” Niall looks sceptical, but hardly ropable. “I’m jetlagged, mate. It’s a bit of a buzzkill talking about work. Can’t a guy rest for a minute?”

Liam grumbles something or rather – Harry doesn’t catch it – before silencing himself in compliance. They all know Liam is persistently talking through the plans because he’s nervous – they’ve never done something like this before, and they haven’t a clue how to navigate it. Still, Niall is right. After discussing it for the last two hours on the flight back from Boston, right off the back of the North American leg of tour, the boys need at least a moment’s peace from it all.

“I’m not even sure I _could_ rest even if I tried,” Louis chimes in, stretching in his seat before relaxing against Harry’s side. “I’ll start talking legal jargon in me sleep at this rate.”

Harry chuckles; somewhat wearily, considering he’s in dire need of a nap and Liam manages to crack a smile. It’s not so much a joke at this point, Harry thinks to himself, staring at the white pleather chairs dotted around the plane. The past two weeks have been consumed by the legality of exiting their contract with Modest and signing with a new label; overwhelming enough to leave Harry with a permanent headache, one which seems only to be soothed by Louis’ gentle hands.

“It’ll be in the past soon enough,” Harry sighs, tilting his head back against the seat, adjusting the in-flight neck pillow for a more comfortable fit. Louis wriggles at his side in response, before stilling again. “We’ve just got to be patient or we’ll all lose our heads.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Niall agrees, somewhat impatiently as he fidgets in his seat. It’s amusing, to a degree, to watch Niall trying to get comfortable, considering how spacious private jets tend to be. He figures it out eventually, reclining in his seat with his legs up and arms folded. “I’m grabbin’ some forty winks.” And he doesn’t say anything more, except for breathing out a content sigh and closing his eyes.

Harry doesn’t even notice that he follows suit, drifting off to the soft whirl of the jet plane engine and Louis’ raspy, absentminded humming. He wakes a short while later, to find Louis gone from his side. He’s lost in the month of April, Dubai in his fresh memory and Louis, with his secret Scrabble skills, but his distance felt monumentally. Disorientated, Harry feels a panic – just for a fraction of a second – before his surroundings come into fuller focus and the bright white in his vision fades to colour. Then he remembers it’s September, and notices that Louis is metres away; the same handsome face, hair a little scruffier and disposition brighter still than it was when he’d lost Zayn, and hadn’t had Harry in years. It’s funny, how someone’s happiness can radiate all over their face, put a spring in their every gesture. Louis just looks brighter than ever, even on only a few hours sleep and presumably his third coffee of the flight. But perhaps Harry’s judgement is a little clouded – he’d think Louis looked sparkling on the dimmest of days.

Harry tunes into Niall and Louis’ conversation in time to hear Niall’s enthusiastic description of his lunch. It’s not that Louis looks bored, per se, but the second he notices Harry stretching and yawning across from them, he loses focus on what Niall is saying about the organic aioli on his brioche. Liam, on the other hand, looks absolutely absorbed in something he’s watching.

Harry tries not to encourage such a lack of manners, smirking and turning his attention to his phone. He’s got a text from Kendall, in regards to her and Cara’s visit to one of the upcoming concerts, and they’re just working out the logistics of that. He stays engrossed in their conversation for all of forty seconds before his eyes dart up and over to Louis, who unsurprisingly stares back. The flirtatious eye contact brings a blush to Harry’s cheeks, and he works out the smile threatening to engulf his entire face.

He’s just so giddy – _still_ , weeks on – at the way things are going. Not just for himself and Louis, but for the rest of the band, too. He’s had a permanent smile on his face, squeaky and dimpled, at every show. He’s hugged fans just that bit tighter at meet-and-greets and, best of all, held himself with such an air of confidence striding into the Modest office than he could ever have imagined the day they signed off, One Direction officially beginning to cut ties with their management for good. Knowing the one thing that’s plagued Harry will be gone from his life entirely is beyond liberating.

Louis is still looking at him. Harry likes to think they’re not usually this woefully all over one another; but rather that it’s all down to lingering clinginess from the traumatic encounter at the Modest meeting. It’s rational, but not necessarily true; though Harry has too much pride to get an outsider’s opinion on his and Louis’ cheesy behaviour. He’d rather not hear the truth that they’ve always been this disgusting.

It’s mid-way through Niall’s lunch description that Harry spots Louis’ hand gestures. It takes him a second to catch on to exactly what he’s doing – because it isn’t waving or flipping him the bird. Louis is signing something to Harry when he thinks Niall isn’t looking, and it takes a lot of Harry’s self control not to burst into guilty giggles.

Harry can’t sign back, completely baffled by what exactly Louis is trying to cryptically tell him.

“I’m tellin’ you, man, it really hit the spot.” Niall concludes, patting his belly and reminding Harry, rather amusingly, of his father.

“Hmm?” Louis hums, his hands quickly falling to his lap the second Niall eyes him. He frowns intently, pretending to give Niall his full attention. “Right, yes, ‘course.”

Niall starts talking about something else eventually, giving Louis the chance to send Harry another mischievous look, followed by a few more hand movements. Harry takes the time to really follow his hands and the shapes he makes with complete ease and confidence. All Harry can do in response is mouth, _what?_ which makes Louis send him an exasperated look and more persistent signing. Harry sniggers when Niall almost catches them in the act, and Louis’ face turns from expressive to passive as he nods at whatever Niall just said.

“Niall!” Liam abruptly interrupts, brows furrowed and looking thoroughly unimpressed. “I am _trying_ to watch a film.”

Niall responds with a scoff, leaning against his arm to get a better look at Liam’s in-flight telly. “What film’s too good you have to interrupt me?”

Liam takes off his headphones altogether with a hint of exasperation.

“It’s called _Marley & Me _.” He answers perkily. His unadulterated delight tells Harry he’s never seen the film, nor realised its reputation for tragedy. “So far it’s quite good, actually.” He adds in answer to both Louis and Niall’s incredulous expressions.

Louis lets out a huffed laugh and Harry can tell what he’s going to say just by the cocky look on his face before he says it.

“Hey Liam, you know the dog dies, don’t you?”

Liam’s look of complete horror is answer enough. He even has that comical ‘o’ shape at his mouth, the poor guy.  

“Louis.” Harry warns, low and hopefully unamused (though the glint of mirth in his eyes is surely betraying him).

“You’re pulling my leg.” Liam states, looking at Niall, who’s laughing; Louis, who gives him a grimace; and Harry, who simply observes, passive to the whole scene.

“I wish I was, Payno.” Louis answers gravely, lips pressed in that bearer-of-bad-news way, but Harry knows better; can see the humour behind it.

“Why would you–” Liam cuts himself off, grumbling and huffing. He sends Louis a scowl before dramatically putting his headphones back on, folding his arms tight to his chest and becoming absorbed in his film once more, mulish expression on his face.

Then Harry and Louis are doing it all over again – their little game – although this time Harry is mouthing _I’m rusty on the sign language, Lou_ which Louis seems to decode, but chooses to ignore. This all happens in a matter of minutes, before Harry finally starts translating the gestures into words.

“ _I_ ,” Louis gestures silently, deliberately taking it slow and mouthing along with it for Harry to get it this time. “ _Want_ ,” he pauses when Niall almost catches him, “ _T_ ,” Harry’s really getting the hang of it now, nodding in understanding, “ _Fuck._ ”

 _Ah_. Harry blushes, and scrunches his nose; failing to hide the stupid, smug grin on his face. He shakes his head – turning away from Louis’ equally smug look and Niall’s conversation – pretending to scroll through his phone.

“Yep, uh, just gonna pop to the loo, yeah?” Louis says to Niall, far too loud considering they’re only sitting inches apart.

Niall scoffs, “Alright, mate. Have a good one.”

Harry counts to fifty before rising from his own chair and striding after Louis to the restroom.

“We’re actin’ like a couple of teenagers.” Harry says the minute the cubicle door clicks shut behind him, not even mildly embarrassed. It’s spacious for an airplane toilet, much roomier than anything you’d find on a commercial flight – even still, Harry is a tall man, and it feels a little cramped. Louis, on the other hand, makes himself rather at home by sliding up onto the basin top, letting his legs dangle casually down the side.

“Got a problem with that, Harold?” Louis asks, all coy and irresistible.

Harry purses his lips, contemplating as he moves across the short space toward Louis. He lets his hands rest atop Louis’ thighs before finally deciding, “Nope.” Then Louis kisses him, with his mouth still pursed, smoothing into the contact. There’s no jokes or laughter after that, just kissing softly, caught up in a blissful retreat away from band mates and fans and paperwork – _endless paperwork_ – even if their hideaway happens to be a toilet stall. It takes a while before it turns heated – much longer than Harry expects considering Louis’ enthusiastically signed desires. Instead, Louis’ lips remain soft and languid, almost as if he’s soaking in every touch – from Harry’s hands now firmly at his waist, to the way their noses bump every few pressing kisses, grazing as they switch angles.

“Have you noticed,” Harry begins slowly, with a cavalier air about him as he watches Louis’ fingers reach his own, twisting and fiddling with Harry’s. “We have like… a _thing_ … about aeroplanes,” He pauses, trying to find the right descriptor, “Somewhat of an affinity.”

Louis looks up through his lashes, hands still tangled. “You have a point, there,” He allows, lips pursed in amusement, nodding his head appreciatively at Harry’s observation, “Maybe we should consider tipping the airline or somethin’,” he continues, smiling lopsidedly; a flash of April, of Full English breakfasts and illegal Scrabble moves, “Is that a thing? Like tippin’ a waiter?”

“I can’t say I know for sure,” Harry answers, smiling big and dimpled, “Maybe a generous donation might do the trick.”

Louis beams, eyes squinting and legs wrapping around Harry’s waist. When he does that, it’s pretty difficult for Harry to resist; hips flush against the cabinet doors, wondering only for a second why there’s mahogany drawers in the bathroom of an aeroplane, and then distracted by other things, particularly the shallow exhale before Louis kisses Harry back.

Louis sifts a hand through Harry’s hair, idly at first – until the pace of the kiss gets quicker, with more fervour behind it – so that Louis tugs at the roots. He doesn’t waste time at all, other hand trailing down Harry’s front and fiddling with the zipper of his jeans. With a swift movement, Louis has his hands down Harry’s trousers, prompting a surprised moan out of him, that if not muffled by Louis’ kiss, might’ve been loud enough for Niall and Liam to hear in the adjacent room.

“Chatterbox,” Louis notes, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise at his own handy work.

“You can’t do somethin’ like that and expect me not to react…” Harry counters, mimicking Louis’ raised eyebrows.

“Fair,” Louis shrugs, moving his hand around again when Harry least expects it, eyes closing and mouth dropping. When Harry makes another inappropriate noise to be heard from a bathroom stall, Louis’ hand shoots to cover it. “ _H_ ,” he warns, looking anything but fretful over the sounds his boyfriend is making.

“I can’t help it,” Harry whines, huffing and leaning his forehead against Louis’.

“This wouldn’t be an issue if you weren’t so…” Louis purses his lips, trying to be tactful, “Vocal.” He mumbles, smirking after the fact.

Harry straightens up, faux offence written all over his frowning face. “Well, Louis, that’s just the way I am.” He answers, folding his arms and keeping up the charade even while Louis rolls his eyes, bouncing his feet and making grabby hands for him to come closer again. “If you’ve got a problem with that, you can see yourself out.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Louis concedes softly, finally successful in pulling Harry closer, “You know I don’t.”

Harry grins fiendishly, kissing Louis chastely; and then when Louis pouts, lingering and tender. There’s not a lot that can be done about Harry’s loud tendencies when it comes to sex, and he doubts he could manage a solution like timing his moans with bouts of turbulence (though that would be quite a convenient skill). So he figures instead of having to go through the awkward motions of a banging on the cubicle door followed by blushing cheeks, fiddling of sex-hair, and swollen lips giving away the game – and that horrified expression of whoever might have caught them – Harry thinks of an alternative.

“What’re y–” Louis begins as Harry’s arms wrap around him, lifting him off the side of the basin, moving toward the cushioned stool in the corner. Louis braces the lift with his hands around Harry’s neck and breathes, “Oh,” as Harry gently places him back down. He stays quiet, eyes wide with curiosity while Harry tucks his hair behind his ear and bends to his knees before him. “ _Oh_.”

The mood shifts after Louis’ utterance, Harry undoing his jeans at a pace that demands concentration, thoughtfully taking his time while Louis watches. Harry looks up a moment, a trace of laughter at the crinkles by his eyes, though something more devilish in the eye contact they’re making now. Louis just breathes out, trying to collect himself, trying to follow Harry’s movements with patience. Harry knows exactly the effect he’s having on Louis by slowing down a little; winding Louis up so that his thoughts become static and white, bewitched by the boy between his legs.

Louis opens his mouth to say something - Harry’s not entirely sure what - when Harry’s fingers brush his navel and drag down as his thighs are bared. His breath hitches and, coupled with the way his hair seems a little too mussed for a bathroom break (exactly how long have they been gone, now?), Harry finds himself inexplicably amused. He looks petulant, like Harry’s denying him his favourite toy. He scrunches his face up trying to conceal his smugness, before pushing it into Louis’ thigh and stifling his soft laughter by biting. Louis jumps minutely, jeans around his shins as he fidgets on the seat.

Harry feels the heavy weight of Louis in his left hand, absently stroking as he nips and licks at Louis’ thigh. As Harry makes his way up closer to the crease of his thigh, Louis’ hands thread themselves into Harry’s curls, gentle but knowing exactly what he needs. His blunt nails scratch at his scalp, and Harry lets out a sound he’s not entirely sure how to describe - Louis would probably call it a whimper, but Harry would be less embarrassed to think of it as a long, drawn out sigh; high-pitched and maybe a little needy.

“ _H_ ,” Louis sighs, sounding out the nickname in a way that seems too beautiful for such an ordinary letter. Harry takes the tone as encouragement, lips now brushing the base of Louis’ dick. His tongue grazes its underside, his curls grazing Louis’ thigh, causing him to squirm a fraction, tickling from the feather-light touch.

“You alrigh’?” Harry asks, his breath hot and wet over Louis as he looks up, biting his lower lip in faux innocence. Louis seems a little dazed; cheeks flushed a soft pink and pupils blown out, like he’s just sifted through a sea of flashing cameras and paparazzi. Harry adores him like this - a little irritable, but ultimately completely and utterly gone for him. But the best part about the whole thing is thinking of the first time they were alone on a flight together in years, and how vastly different that world was from today. Back then, Harry was thinking about how best to come out the other side of the eighteen hours with his dignity intact - now, Harry could waste hours - days even - just sitting on this bathroom floor, basking in every soft, tender inch of Louis at his mouth.

“Yes, I’m fucking alright,” Louis snipes without heat, and Harry bites back a grin, ducking his head back down, “You’re being a-” He doesn’t finish whatever he was about to say, instead cursing incoherently. It’s wet, when he makes his way up Louis’ dick, the weight of him on his tongue satisfying and slightly intoxicating. He doesn’t want to say he’s salivating, but it’s a close thing with Louis’ hands still scratching at his scalp, his thighs tensing and relaxing in an uncoordinated rhythm. Harry’s knees are starting to ache a little, digging into the hard floor as they are.

He hums, trying not to smile and accidentally graze his teeth on the head in the process, relishing in Louis’ shaky exhales. He’s got a hand at the base, and his other slides up Louis’ thighs to grab his waist, feeling the give as he squeezes in time with the slide of his other hand.

His tongue massages the underside of Louis’ dick, Harry’s own getting harder and harder every time his hair is pulled only slightly. He feels a rush of adrenaline, almost wild in the moment - with his band mates on the other side of the door completely oblivious. The pilots are probably leaning back in their seats, having some tea as they survey their controls. It’s absolutely ludicrous, this, and Harry feels himself moan at the thought of Louis losing it, coming so hard he can’t help but cry out. His tongue picks up rhythm, his left hand slick now as he strokes in time with it. Louis’ hips are thrusting up shallowly, trying to get Harry deeper.

Harry looks up, and they lock eyes - the two of them caught in this charged moment, like nothing else exists but Louis on Harry’s tongue and Harry’s fingers digging into Louis’ waist. _I love this_ , Harry thinks suddenly, eyes fluttering shut as Louis’ fingers turn sharp, pulling at his hair and making him moan, _I love this, I love this, I love this-_

“Haz,” Louis pants, yanking at Harry’s hair harder, the both of them moaning louder. So much for keeping quiet. Harry just hopes the engine’s hum is enough to mask the noise. “Haz, I’m-”

Harry swallows around him, throat tight as Louis comes in a rush. He barely tastes anything, but the lingering bitterness of Louis on his tongue as he pulls off pushes him over the edge. He groans into Louis’ thigh at one final pull and twist of his hair, hand still stroking Louis jerkily until he shifts his hips back, sensitive and overwhelmed.

He’s breathing heavily into Louis’ marked thigh for a few moments, blinking away the white edges of his vision. He softens his right hand, a definite relief for Louis’ waist. His left cups Louis’ other thigh, his legs still splayed like they’re not yet done. Harry fights off a shiver at the thought, Louis’ hands running through his hair and making him feel like an exposed livewire, ready to spark at a moment’s notice.

“Make-up sex is excellent.” Louis mumbles with a satisfied huff, though they both know enough time since their temporary break-up has passed for any sexual acts between them to be truly considered ‘make-up sex’. Regardless, Harry doesn’t correct him, understanding the enhanced spur of passion they’ve had in the wake of losing each other. Things like that take time to heal, and they certainly create an environment of heightened emotion - one that causes even a simple kiss to stir in Harry’s chest, making him feel lucky and so fucking alive.

“S’pose we should go back out there,” Harry reluctantly suggests, grinning at Louis’ disheveled state.

“Hmm…” Louis agrees, “Give me a minute.”

When they do eventually return to the cabin – separately (Harry counting to a minute before joining the rest) – Liam has dissolved into a blubbering mess.

“You missed the funniest shit,” Niall says, looking up with that toothy grin on his face, “I took photos.”

Liam doesn’t acknowledge Niall’s amusement, bottom lip quivering and face flushed from crying. Instead, he bows his head and mumbles in a wounded tone, “The dog dies.”

# …

London is as it always is; a little overcast, a little dreary, and a lot like coming home. Fans flock to every spot within a twenty-mile radius from where the band are said to be, lining up outside the O2 Arena on the morning of the first concert – right through to the second the cars exit the venue on the last night, the first six shows of One Direction’s European tour under their belts.

There is a difference, though, to the last time they toured Great Britain. There’s a difference for all four boys, who’ve spent every spare moment discussing and dissecting the intricacies of their preparations to sign with a new label with the Azoff’s at their side. Capitol has expressed interest, and after Louis finally got around to explaining his surprise reunion with Zayn Malik, Harry found a fondness for the studio.

Even though the fans don’t know a thing about the band’s departure from the old management, they can sense the change in the air. Harry doesn’t much like reading fan theories or comments, often disheartened in the past by taking them too much to heart, but even he isn’t oblivious to their perceptions. Sometimes Niall comes into the dressing room with his face glued to his screen, reciting an extensive fan observation about the way Harry and Louis smiled at each other during the Manchester show, and Louis claims there’s even more comments along the lines of ‘Larry Is Real’ on his latest Instagram post than the one before it.

It probably began with the Snapchat leak, aided in the weeks since, as Harry and Louis have become increasingly lax with their privacy. It doesn’t come naturally – at least, it didn’t at first – Harry often needing a reminder from Jeff that he’s allowed to look at Louis on stage during _Little Things_ , or be seen leaving a car with him. If anything, it’s wholeheartedly encouraged, as long as it doesn’t breach explicitly outing either of them. Speculation, for now, is exactly what they want – and Harry trusts his friend (and now manager) to lead the best way out of the closet.  

On Wednesday, Louis films a video wearing Harry’s jumper, and posts it to One Direction’s 31.6 million Twitter followers. It doesn’t really matter that he’s previewing a few of _Made in The A.M._ ’s track list names, because people figure out pretty quickly the origins of Louis’ choice of attire. That seems bold enough in itself, but it’s soon trumped by Liam – who, funnily enough, does not get the encouragement of Jeff, but simply unwittingly decides to post a photo of Niall with Louis and Harry in the background; sitting close and looking at one another fondly. Niall claims his rock-god pose with guitar in hand and sneering expression really ought to be praised, but it’s the out of focus Harry and Louis that remain the topic of conversation among fans for a solid week.

# …

Birmingham brings familiar faces to the front row – beaming and whooping throughout the entire performance. Kendall and Cara spend the show prancing and jumping on the spot, occasionally taking each other by the hand and spinning. They don’t seem to mind the attention their enthusiasm garners, nor the occasional phone angled in their direction. The only attention they seem to notice is that of the band themselves, and when Harry drags his mic stand toward their side of the stage he swears he can hear Kendall shout something along the lines of ‘sit on my face, Styles!’. He responds with an appalled frown, Cara and Kendall barking with laughter.

Backstage, Harry is pulled into one of Kendall’s overbearing hugs; one that is especially tight tonight to make up for the months apart.

“Last I saw you, you were single.” She mutters into Harry’s hair before pulling away and giving him a sly look. Harry doesn’t need a reminder of his visit to her L.A. place, nor the side of him Kendall bore witness to in the 24-hours it took before Louis and Zayn showed up on the front porch to patch Harry’s heart back together.

“So were you.” Harry counters, nodding his head in the direction of Cara, who grins mischievously. He tries not to look smug over his two friends in love, though he’s sure he fails. Perhaps he’s starting to get what Niall and Liam must have felt about him and Louis.

Though things weren’t nearly so dire for Cara and Kendall like they were for Louis and Harry back in August, the girls had taken things unusually slow. The details are a little foggy, considering Harry had been a vacant shell of a person that could barely finish his tea let alone listen to an elaborate explanation of the many dates Kendall and Cara had been going on before they finally decided to declare themselves ‘girlfriends’ (which, as it so happens, must have become official around the time Louis and Harry got back together, Kendall declaring their tragedy as some sort of push to action).

“Oh, how the women of the world will weep.” Kendall laments sarcastically, though her fond glance at Cara is completely lacking in Kendall’s usual cynicism. Harry can’t help but laugh; unsure if she’s talking about girls crying over him, or her. He much prefers the latter.   

“Excellent show.” Cara compliments, hand around Kendall’s waist and the pair of them looking like they’ve just won the lottery by simply being in one another’s company. Harry knows that look well. “ _What Makes You Beautiful_ continues to be a true pop classic.”

“Thank you.” Harry responds, laughing breathily at what must be the most monotonously spoken _What Makes You Beautiful_ that he’s ever heard.

“Where’s your other half?” she asks, quirking one of those signature brows in question.

“Oh, you mean my _better_ half?” Harry corrects, “Wherever the food is, I’d say.”

“Hmm,” Cara hums approvingly, “Man after my own heart.” She touches her chest melodramatically before lifting the One Direction snapback off Kendall’s head, leaving her hair a little static, and shoving it onto her own. Coupled with the On the Road Again tour shirt, Cara looks like any old hardcore One Direction fan. Then she salutes Harry and Kendall both, slipping away to the other side of the room, in search of snacks and Louis Tomlinson.

Harry watches Kendall watching Cara go. He observes the lingering glance, the way Kendall looks when she finally turns back to Harry, face shining with the subtlest joy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kendall says with a roll of her eyes, blush creeping into the apples of her cheeks.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” Harry counters, faux innocence written all over his face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kendall mumbles, straightening her posture and adjusting the hemline of her shirt. “Anyway, I look hot as a Directioner.” She makes a point of swishing her hair behind her shoulder, modelling the clothes with a jut of her hip.

Harry laughs loudly before he folds his arms and looks Kendall up and down with a composed interest. She really has gone all out on the merch; and it makes Harry wonder if anyone got a full shot of her like this in the crowd. He thinks idly of what the papers would say, about Kendall and Cara attending the concert of their mutual ex. It’s ludicrous – Harry’s never been anything but friendly with both of these girls, never once have any of them fed into the rumors or encouraged gossip about the nature of their friendship. Still, the press will talk, and there’s nothing much anyone can do about it.

“But _hey_ ,” Kendall chimes after a moment, softly bunching Harry’s arm, “How’s the sweet taste of freedom?”

“Sometimes it feels slow,” Harry begins, twisting a ring on his finger absentmindedly, “Like, the sort of stuff Jeff gets us to do seemed sort of… unimportant at first,” He mulls it over; the Snapchat stories and subtle tweets, “But it’s all fast at once, too. I forgot how mad the fans go for the smallest thing. S’why we have to _make_ them so small to begin with. Tread carefully and all that.”

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Kendall agrees, eyes wide with enthusiasm, “It’s literally insane. Like, sometimes I just go on Twitter and see some new hashtag about you guys and I’m like – is it over yet? Have they made the official statement already? And then I remember you telling me it’s happening in November or whatever.”

“Three and a half weeks, if we’re being exact.” Harry says, and feels a rush just to say it out loud. Jeff, the boys, and – most importantly – Harry and Louis, spent a fair amount of their last meeting organising the exact date when the statement would be released confirming their relationship. They didn’t want it to happen on tour – in case of potential backlash or a media storm that’d flock to any arena – so the first week of November suits well. It means the whole band will have time to slip away into the shadows before having to properly address it – in their own words – come Christmas promo season in December. And then the hiatus will begin and Harry and Louis can escape; truly free to be themselves for the first time since One Direction was formed on stage at the X Factor in 2010.

“ _Crap_ , H. That’s like, mental.” Since Harry saw Kendall last, the brunette has changed up her vocabulary a little – mostly because she’s spent even more time with British people than she usually would, even more so than before, when her and Cara were just good friends. Nevertheless, hearing her slip in the occasional British version of things she’d already be saying doesn’t make her sound any less Californian to Harry, especially in England – where she sticks out like an American thumb, hailing a yellow cab and everything. “So, what, it’s just going to be like ‘hey, you know those two One Direction guys? Yeah, they’re in love’?”

Harry scoffs. “Would be nice not to even have to say _that_ , to be honest,” he admits. “Feels surreal that people even care, but… I dunno. M’grateful that they do, at the same time,” He frowns at his own words, huffing a laugh, “If that makes sense.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean,” she says with a sad sort of smile, pursing her lips in contemplation, “I guess the whole coming out thing feels screwed up half the time. I’m going to do it, eventually, even though it’s like – you’re out to everyone that you care about, right?” She gets increasingly colorful just talking about it, and Harry can tell from her tone that it’s something she’s been battling with herself in recent times. “But _wait!_ ” She raises her voice a fraction, mocking and particularly American in it’s drawl, “There’s the _whole_ world watching and waiting too!” She pauses, cooling down a bit, “It’s not really about how it’s done, though. The point is what comes after.”

“S’very wise of you to say, Kendall,” Harry comments with a levelled tone, eliciting an eye-roll from the model, “Monogamy has changed you.”

“Oh, _shut up_ , loser.” Kendall retorts, tone oozing nonchalance.

“Enough about me, though,” Harry says through laughter, “You and Cara seem to be gettin’ along well.”

“No thanks to you,” Kendall says, eyes glinting at the very mention of Cara – looking like a sly cat about to pounce on her pray with the way she composes her obvious eagerness to just go on _and on_ about her and Cara. There’s certainly a façade, the one Kendall still isn’t quite used to not needing, at least for now – and Harry can, of course, see right through it – to the secretly chuffed, gushy interior.

“ _Hey!_ ” He replies, tone wounded and expression equally so. “I won’t accept that comment.” He pouts. “If it weren’t for me playin’ cupid you wouldn’t’ve known how Cara felt at all.”

“ _Playing cupid!_ That’s rich,” Kendall counters, folding her arms, “Had to do all the work myself. Worst cupid ever.”

Harry huffs. “The technicalities don’t matter,” he decides to say instead of arguing, making Kendall chuckle, “You figured it out in the end.”

“It’s seriously bizarre – or, like, it _should_ be. There’s the whole closet thing which is like, _dumb_ ,” she waves her hand, eyes rolling and tone exasperated, “But it’s… completely natural, too,” She bites her lower lip, a hint of a smile. “Like, one day we’re best friends; me pining like a lovesick idiot, and the next – she’s running at me in a freaking airport, practically tackling me to the ground and making this huge love declaration.”

“Sounds like somethin’ out of a film. One of the good ones.”

“ _Of course_ one of the good ones. In cinemas near you, summer of 2025.” Kendall jokes, dramatically lowering her voice to mimic blockbuster trailer voice overs.  

Harry raises his eyebrows with delight and asks, “You see yourself together in ten years’ time?”

Kendall narrows her eyes and mumbles, “I didn’t say that.”

“Ah.” Harry nods slowly.

“But I’m happy. So happy. Why shouldn’t I get that for another decade?”

“Couldn’t agree more, Ken.” He answers, voice soft and expression tenderly proud. He’s never seen Kendall so grounded in this part of her life. She’s always been career-driven – and down to Earth, of course – even with the cameras documenting her every move since she was little. But still, Kendall is young – even younger than Harry (though he likes to pretend he’s an old soul) – and she’s always been somewhat of a troublemaker in her own right when it comes to matters of the heart. In all the time Harry has known her, he’s never seen her so secure, so clearly in love. It’s a lovely change.

“Even if we don’t make it…” Kendall shrugs, always the realist, “Best friends… _soul mates_ – falling in love – it’s one hell of a love story.”

“It is.” Harry agrees firmly, understanding – and lucky to be able to get it – when so few really ever do.

“We still talking about Cara and me?” Kendall has the gall to ask, following Harry’s eye line as he shifts it to the background, where Cara and Louis lounge, packet of chips between them, Louis’ laughter audible even from across the room.

“Me and Lou?” Harry clarifies, then shakes his head, a knowing smile creeping in. “Nah, we’re definitely gonna make it.”

# …

“You’ve already been spotted at a gay bar together, that’s a huge step out of the closet in itself.” Jeff sits back in his chair, gesturing casually, “Those pictures aren’t exactly going to lose traction any time soon. _Now_ we’re just warming people up to the idea.”

“We don’t really want to overwhelm them.” Cindy chimes in, wearing a genuine expression that Harry’s already at home with. It’s such a stark contrast to be sitting here with Jeff and the other representatives of their team compared to years with Modest. The entire atmosphere is different – the formality is stripped bare – no table dividing client and manager, no stiff uncomfortable suits, no hidden agenda or bad intentions. It’s a breath of fresh air.

“Mm,” Jeff nods, “One small step for man, and all that.”

“You’re quotin’ Buzz Lightyear?” Louis asks, amused.

“Neil Armstrong, idiot.” Harry mutters to Louis, leaning over and trying not to giggle stupidly.

“Where’d I get Buzz Lightyear from, then?” Louis asks, expression adorably quizzical.

“Sounds like Buzz Aldrin,” Harry supplies easily, and when Louis still looks bemused he clarifies, “Buzz Lightyear is from _Toy Story_.”

It clicks for Louis then, and he lets out a soft ‘ah’ and nods appreciatively. “Right. Good film.”

“Excellent film.” Harry agrees, dimples forming.

Louis returns his attention to the others, but quickly mutters, “Should watch that when we get home.”

“The point is,” Jeff says, trying to fight a smile, “Die hard fans will pick up on the subtly, no questions; these guys watch everything you two do. But it’s also about the rest of the world, too.”

“So you’re comparin’ mankind's first landing on the moon to us coming out?” Louis jokes.

“When you put it like _that_ …” Jeff chuckles, “But you’ve got to admit it's kind of a big deal, right? Even if we’d like it to go under the radar, the sheer mass of your fan base – and I don’t just mean One Direction fans – I’m talkin’ the self proclaimed Louis and Harry fans–”

“Er, that’s _Larry_ , Jeff.” Louis corrects, and Harry can just hear in the tone of his voice that he’s smug about it.

“Right,” Jeff nods, “It’s gonna make a dent on the pop culture news of the world. You’ll go from pop stars to LGBT pop stars. And there’s a difference.”

There’s a short pause and then, “No pressure, though.” Harry says, making Louis laugh and Cindy smile.  

“And,” Cindy chimes in conversationally, “It’s important the fans don’t feel cheated or lied to.”  

Both Louis and Harry nod at that, smiles fading. This is something they’ve both been a little apprehensive about, considering the years of stunting and secrecy around the band. If they’d had it their way, the lies would’ve stopped years ago. It’s not as if Harry and Louis worry about losing sales or getting a bad reputation – nothing so superficial. It would break their hearts, though, if the fans felt betrayed in some way, no matter how delicately they handle this announcement.

“That’s really important to us, yeah.” Harry speaks for the two of them, voice low and serious.

“We thought so,” Cindy soothes, “It’s a priority, for sure. First, of course, we’ll have to monitor which news outlets report on it. Obviously, we can’t really stop no-name gossip columns putting in their two cents worth, but the big names – _The Mirror_ , _The Sun_ …” she gestures vaguely, “We’ll try our best.”

“We’ve already reached out to James Corden about that first interview, like you guys mentioned,” Jeff looks through his papers, “That’ll be major in how the public sees all this. We know you’re genuine, but we have to tread lightly making out like Modest are the bad guys,” he pauses, sensing the exasperation from Louis and Harry to go on and add, “Even if they are. When it comes to album promo, though,” he discards the notes, apparently speaking on his own merit now, “We can blacklist questions about your relationship during promotional season, if you want.”

Louis and Harry exchange a look before Louis leans forward in his chair and answers, “No. Well, I mean; we don’t want _every_ question to be ‘bout us, obviously,” he looks to Harry for guidance, and Harry nods encouragingly, “We’re there to promote the album. It’s not fair on the rest of the boys.” He pauses. “But… at the same time, the fans deserve to hear about it a bit.” He shrugs, fingers fitting together in his lap, Harry eyeing the way his thumbs do circles around one another. “We’ve never much liked questions about our personal lives to begin with, have we? So that’s not changed much.”

Harry refocuses his gaze to Jeff. “Exactly.”  

“True,” Jeff comments, pausing to watch Cindy jot down a reminder on the topic before huffing a smile, “Cool, noted.”  

“S’what’s next, then?” Harry asks, for once not feeling the festering anxiety in his belly at one of these things.

Jeff shrugs, “It’s really up to you guys how we go about it. Once Modest sign off on the contract break, which…” he gestures to Cindy, “How’s that lookin’, Cindy?”

Cindy makes a non-committal noise. “They’re being stubborn as all hell,” she admits, “But they’ll have to sign eventually. We’ve got them backed into a corner.”

“Once they finally crack, we’ll be able to give the go-ahead on a public appearance for the two of you.”

“What… like the opposite of bearding?” Harry asks, somewhat amused.

Jeff laughs. “Pretty much, dude. It’s weird, I know. Just something chill and easy, like a lunch date. We’ll call the paps, they’ll take their pictures, nothing too showy, we want it to look organic – which, y’know, will be a piece of cake, considering you’re in love.” That last part sends the whole room into soft chuckles, and the very idea that their representatives could be so at ease about Harry and Louis _in love_ is almost too good to be true.

“You’ll have to ask me out first, thanks.” Louis jokes playfully, folding his arms and giving Harry attitude.

“Playing hard to get, are we?” Harry asks, feigning exasperation.

“You bet.”

# …

Just as Jeff predicted, Modest did, in fact, eventually cave. The moment seems as if it might lose some of it’s lustre through the weeks of back and forth legality; that after years of wanting this very thing, by the time the four of them finally do, it might not be so climactic. Somehow, that’s just not how it goes, though.

Harry’s in the bathroom after their second show in Dublin when he gets the news.

“Harry!” Louis shouts from the other side of the door, “It’s fuckin’ official!” Harry wonders for a split second, firstly what on Earth is ‘official’, and secondly, why Louis hasn’t just opened the door and waltzed right on in.

“Quit pissin’ and come out!” Upon hearing Niall’s laughing demand, he realises why Louis left him to his privacy.

“We’re goin’ out for a couple beers.” Liam says the moment Harry opens the bathroom door.

“This great place, you’ll love it,” Niall adds enthusiastically, eyes sparkling with four-leaf clovers and pots of gold at the end of a rainbow. “O’Donohuges.” Even the way he says it is so proudly Irish that Harry can’t help but smile and nod.

It’s not the first time Niall’s dragged the four of them out to a pub in Ireland, and it certainly won’t be the last. This particular lads’ night out has the appearance of every other; four band mates, dim lights, loud Irish banter, and overly sized pints. Though this time the celebratory air – and the fact that Niall, Liam, Harry, and Louis haven’t spent time together outside of work for months now – adds a different tone to the whole night.

“Cheers to survivin’ the last five years,” Niall toasts with a chortle, then adding with more sincerity, “And an even bigger cheers to countless better years to come.”  

“Here, here!” Liam concurs, beer raised and expression jovial.

“And cheers to Niall’s knee!” Louis interrupts, raising his own glass melodramatically, “May the great war between it and Modest finally be won.”

Niall cackles, a bemused expression flickering, before he shrugs – a look that Harry reads to say – _why the hell not raise a glass to my knee?_ Before he clinks his lager to Louis’, Niall’s approval making Louis shout ‘ _oi, oi!_ ’ unnecessarily loud.   

“In all seriousness, though, boys,” Louis says, voice husky and soft, “We’ve had a bit of shit over the years… if it weren’t for you lot, there’s no way I could’ve put up with it.”

“Likewise, mate,” Niall adds, voice lowered to prove how serious he is. “You keep me sane.”

“I just want to say,” Liam begins, voice bellowing. He’s been mostly quiet up ‘til this point, and Harry notes the slurring in his tone, coupled with the slow way he blinks, which suggest there’s an overly emotional drunk Liam speech on the way. “The fans, the fame and all that,” he waves his hand about drunkenly, the other boys waiting expectantly, “They don’t mean anythin’ – not a bloody thing – if I didn’t have you lot by my side.” He pauses, eyes actually glistening to the point that Harry’s surprised Louis hasn’t given him shit for it yet. “I love you lads.”

There’s a short silence after Liam’s teary declaration, and then Louis lets out a dramatic breath and says, “Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, Payno.” He says it so sincerely, that Harry is surprised there wasn’t a friendly insult hidden in there somewhere, until, “Granted, I wouldn’t’ve been a _big sap_ about it, but, uh…” he trails off into a laugh that’s mirrored in Niall, Liam and Harry.

It’s round after round of Guinnesses after that, followed by some pretty poor impressions of Simon Cowell which Harry isn’t altogether proud of in hindsight. The most impressive of which is performed by Liam – red faced and giggling, “Hello boys, it’s your uncle Simon,” in a smarmy tone; a flash of their old mentor, before the crinkles at the corners of Liam’s eyes bring him back to himself. This is essentially the only chance the band have to let loose and slag off their old employers and they’re reaping it for all they’ve got – in the middle of an Irish pub – lagers sloshing in the hands of the drunken men around them. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the existing heightened elation from officially leaving Modest in the dust – regardless, Harry is sure he’s not laughed so hard in his life. And the best part? His three best friends in stitches along side him.

# …

“I still say we should’ve gone to the Titanic themed restaurant for this,” Louis mutters, palm pressing against the cafe entrance, leading the way inside. “I heard they do reenactments and everythin’.”

“I’m just as gutted over it as you are.” Harry answers gravely, sliding into a corner booth and observing the other patrons. There aren’t many people around, just a small smattering; a couple sharing a late breakfast over by the window, two girls on their phones, an old Irish man by himself near the counter. Three more people enter together in the time it takes for Harry and Louis to pull out a set of menus, a vintage ship’s bell above the threshold sounding to announce their presence. There’s something unique about the way brass rings, and Harry can picture the same bell striking aboard a ship many moons ago.

“It’s not too late, you know. It’s supposed to be sick, H,” Louis still pleads, not even bothering to look at the brunch options, keeping his imploring eyes on Harry. “Below average lunch, but,” he says under his breath, before he shrugs and adds louder, “Who cares when you’ve got Celine Dion playing and probably - because I wouldn’t know, on account of the fact that we’re _here_ instead, but _probably_ \- proper looking old timey people running around with top hats, just like in the film.”

Harry purses his lips, staring at Louis for a few solid seconds, before looking down at the menu options. The truth is, Harry fell head over heels for the idea of a Titanic themed restaurant the moment they read up about Belfast’s history in constructing the tragic voyage. Nevertheless, Harry is sure the heart of the ocean, and Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, weren’t exactly in the kind of headlines Jeff wanted to make with this outing.

“This’ll have to do.” Harry states.

Louis huffs, legs swinging under the table distractedly. “Fine. Next time we go on a date, though, I’m pickin’ the place.”

“Whatever floats your boat, love.” Harry says, quietly pleased with himself for the double meaning, so much so that he doesn’t even have to look up at Louis to sense the indignation.

“Oh, _I see._ Now you’re just rubbin’ it in!” Louis exclaims, giving away in the amused twitch of his mouth that he’s not aghast at all.

“We can do our own re-enactment when we got home, how’s that?” Harry smiles innocently.

Louis tries to suppress the grin by pursing his lips and feigning interest in the drinks section of the menu.

“I just hope you’re not talking about the whole drowning and freezing to death part.” he mumbles. “S’not much of a turn on for me, personally.”

“Shu’ up,” Harry snorts, shaking his head, dimples bared. Then, more earnestly, “You know which bit I mean.”

“Draw me like one of your French boys?” Louis asks, eyebrow quirked and voice high with curiosity. 1997 Leonardo DiCaprio was a dish in his own right – enough for fourteen-year-old Harry to swoon over a decade later. In hindsight, Harry really ought to have realised after seeing _Titanic_ for the first time that it wasn’t common for boys his age to be focusing on just how mesmerising Jack’s eyes were in that close up. Not when a naked Kate Winslet took up a majority of the screentime. Louis knows exactly what he’s doing by mentioning said scene.

“‘ _zactly_.” Harry answers, voice wavering from the stupid laughter that threatens to draw embarrassing attention to them. Although, come to think of it, attention is the point of this little trip, after all.

“In the meantime, I’m havin’ an omelette.” Harry tacks on cheerily, putting his menu back down with a satisfied huff, resting his elbows on the tabletop.

“Good choice, good choice.” Louis hums, still scanning his. He bites his lower lip in the way Harry knows that he must be thinking about a lot more than his food options. He’s all set to ask - gently probe his boyfriend to open up - when Louis offers it on his own accord, “S’just kind of bizarre.” He looks up at Harry, eyes wide and teeth still skating over a reddened lower lip. He looks years younger somehow, in the hesitancy and nerves. He’s clearly not talking about the list of food, or Harry’s omelette choice. “A good kind of bizarre - but _all the same_ ,” he stops biting his lip for good, fiddling with the corner of his menu, bending it this way and that, “Don’t you think?”

“I do,” Harry agrees with a slow nod of his head. “Being on show is nerve wrackin’,” he waits, softening his voice to add, “Feels all sort of ridiculous when we’re not doing it to hide anything. We’re trying to be honest, it’s flipping the whole system.”

“Exactly!” Louis laughs disbelievingly, leaning in closer to Harry opposite him, “M’not sure how to… what I’m _supposed_ to…” Louis trails off, emphatic hand gestures turning vague as he quiets.

“Just forget all that,” Harry swiftly says, “There’re no rules anymore. S’just you and me. May as well be no one else in this shop.” The remark is playful, but the reminiscent undertones stay true to what Louis said to Harry, just weeks ago on the floor of Kendall’s Hollywood Hills home. It isn’t the first time either of them have made reference to the important message - and with everything that’s going on so easily overwhelming - it’s undoubtedly the last. One might think being reminded of their temporary break up when already at a low point could be a disaster - but neither Harry nor Louis have found that the case during occasional bouts of stress in the days and weeks since. The reminder is needed, that they can be at their very lowest, and still prevail together. Louis’ features soften in an instant.  

“Quotin’ me back at me…” he answers with a devilish smirk, though it fades to something more tender in nature. “You’re right, though.”

“I’m always right.” Harry replies, chuffed.

By the time their food arrives, the cafe has filled some, an additional handful of patrons crowding an otherwise spacious shop front. Harry isn’t totally clocked onto Irish time - even days on from arriving - but it must be approaching lunch, especially with that midday light flooding through the windows.  

Louis is in the middle of gesticulating enthusiastically about a humorous encounter in a club with Lottie when Harry’s attention shifts, just a fraction, to the two girls he noted upon arrival.

“S’fuckin’ weird, Haz. She’s my li’ sis but I can’t get used to her drinkin’ - well, _legally_ , anyway-”

“I think those girls are taking photos of us.” Harry deadpans, eyes still on the girls, who remarkably haven’t taken their eyes off their phones, though undoubtedly there’s something different about their attention than there was before.

“What?” Louis chirps, following Harry’s much more inconspicuous gaze with his obvious one. “S’the point, innit?” he laughs. “You always spot them a mile away! Poor buggers don’t stand a chance getting a secret photo of you.” He teases, watching the way Harry stares the girls down until they seem to pretend to be occupied with something else. It’s not the first time Louis has teased Harry for glowering at a stranger; the last of which resulted in Louis hysterically laughing over a fan capturing Harry looking as if he was out of an episode of _the Office_ , mid-shovelling a salad in his mouth. The photo served as material for Louis’ infectious laughter for days after.  

“Not on my watch.” Harry frowns, raising his pointer finger authoritatively. He’s met with a sheepish smile,  one that he almost wishes he could capture on film, because Louis looks so particularly beautiful wearing it.

“Well, on your watch, _this_ time they’ll have to.” Louis reminds him, though it’s hardly spoken with any serious warning.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” Harry mutters after chewing on his lunch and inadvertently making eye contact with the eldest girl again. “I never know how to let them take candid photographs without starin’.”

Louis lets out a chuckle at that, looking over at the girls before adding, “Hold on, looks like one of them’s coming over.”

“ _Act natural_.” Harry orders, quickly sticking a pile of omelet onto his fork and shoving it into his mouth.

“You’re the one that needs to act _normal_ , you loon.” Louis retorts in jest, watching Harry struggle with his mouthful.

“Dickhead.” Harry mumbles through food. Louis goes to jibe about the fact that it’s rude to eat with your mouth open, but the remark is left unfinished when they’re joined by one of the girls.

“Hello,” she tentatively interrupts, and although they’d been prepared for the company, Louis and Harry don’t have to feign the natural pleasant surprise upon seeing her. She’s the younger of the two, hazel eyes wide and a sweetness about her that Harry can’t quite place, only that he’s sure without having to know her that she must be impossibly kind. It’s in the eyes. “I am sorry to interrupt,” Her accent is thick in a way Harry doesn’t expect; smooth and unmistakably French. When Louis mutters an ‘ _don’t be silly, love, you’re okay_ ’, she continues on with more gusto, “Phoebe,” she gestures to her friend sitting mere metres away, biting her lip, tugging at a stray curl from her headband; watching on with a hint of terror in her eyes. “My _sister_ ,” she quickly explains, looking almost embarrassed for the assumption that Harry and Louis would know Phoebe without any further introduction. Now that he’s made to notice the similarities, Harry feels foolish for not having guessed their relation. The girls have identical dark curls, in bouncy coils around their heart-shaped faces and though a definite age gap, the resemblance is clear. Harry sends Phoebe a warm smile, before returning his attention to her younger sister.

“She loves you both,” the girl continues, shoving her hands into the pockets of her army green windcheater. “She didn’t want me to come over…” There’s something debonair about this girl in the way she exudes a casual confidence, albeit a reserved kind. Harry has met many strangers over the years, and it’s a rarity to be spoken to with ease. He gathers that for her, this encounter is not nearly as earth-shattering and life-altering as it appears to be for her sister; who remains stone-still with a mortified look on her face. “She’s too shy.”

“Aw,” Louis lets out, and Harry makes the mistake of watching the pure look of empathy on Louis’ beautiful face, because he gets completely lost in it for too long than is appropriate in front of fans. “Tell her to come on over!” he gently encourages, voice a little raspy like it gets when he’s talking to one of the twins. “We won’t bite.”

“Much.” Harry adds on, smiling at the amused reaction it gets from the youngest sister.

The girl goes to leave, before turning back around on the spot, an awkward expression on her face as she adds, “Um, also, I like your music, too. Especially the new stuff. _Drag Me Down_ is really…” She looks up at the ceiling, perhaps searching for the English translation for what she’s trying to describe, “Cool.” She settles on, nodding her head appreciatively before shuffling back to her sister.

Harry gives Louis a look, eyebrows raised and lips tugged downward, Louis practically mimicking the look right back to him. Those seconds make Harry feel they’re much less like a twenty-one and twenty-three-year-old and more like an old married couple on their back decking, chuckling over the boundless energy of their grandchildren running around in front of them.

“The new stuff’s _cool,_ eh?” Louis says quietly, and Harry has to turn the grin into something more polite when the two sisters return to their table.

“I’m Phoebe.” The eldest states robotically, wringing her hands in front of her and staring blankly between Harry and Louis.

“Great name, great name.” Louis answers, nodding and giving her a kind smile, “My sister’s name is Phoebe.”

“I know.” Phoebe shakily assures, her cheeks flushed crimson from sheer panic. She can’t be much younger than eighteen, though the way she stands before them - uncertain and nervous - makes her look a lot younger.

Phoebe’s sister gives her an alarmed look before clearing her throat and asking, “Could she get a picture?”

“Of course.” Harry answers, already moving to stand. Phoebe’s eyes grow impossibly wide, owl-like in their stare as both Louis and Harry stand, inching closer to her. Harry wonders if she might cry, but she just stays rigid and silent while her sister pulls out a phone. “M’sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” he asks the youngest as she fiddles with the camera app.

“Oh,” She tucks a ringlet behind her ear, a flicker of embarrassment on her face for having not said earlier, “Sabine.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Harry answers with a nod of his head, “Sabine, Phoebe.”

Sabine gets chattier with each passing minute, while Phoebe remains silent. She talks while she beckons Harry, Louis, and Phoebe into the frame of her phone’s camera; about what an unlikely coincidence it is, that the two who have come all the way from Aix-en-Provence, out of place in this Irish fisherman’s village, to have found members of their favourite pop group in a random café. Even for Harry, who’s known enough ‘unlikely coincidences’ meeting fans in his time to surely be used to it, can recognise the lucky chance. Particularly since Jeff stressed that an encounter with a fan, should it happen, would give this ‘stunt’ all the more coverage on social media.

Phoebe shakes under Harry and Louis’ gentle one-armed hug, wedged between them as her sister takes the time to snap at least four photos of the three of them together. Harry soothes her between takes with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, while Louis makes jokes, easing her nerves with every shy laugh she lets out.

Afterward, Sabine takes individual selfies with Louis and Harry, and looking satisfied, puts her phone back into her pocket.

The sisters stand close together with a slight awkwardness - as always is with these sorts of interactions - before Sabine offers, “Merci bien, thank you.” Her sister nods in agreement - still, after ten minutes getting used to Harry and Louis’ presence, unable to form much more than a word here and there.

“Er,” Phoebe suddenly sounds, voice wavering. She gulps, taking seconds to form the words she appears so intent on sharing, “I’m happy you’re friends again.” she finally says, a relief flooding her bronze features for speaking her mind.

It isn’t at all what Harry expected her to say - after all, she’s been so quiet he had no clue that was what could be running through her mind this entire time. It simultaneously breaks his heart and puts it all back together – better than ever – just hearing that. It breaks it because all Harry has ever wanted was Louis’ love. In the beginning, he couldn’t quite figure out in what form – taking whatever he could get, from the friendly arm punches, the messing around backstage, the tussling of Harry’s curls and the nicknames – he’d take Louis’ friendship, he’d take it any day. Even after he figured out he wanted a little more than that, Harry drank it up anyway; smiling a bit too wide when Louis looked at him, bewitched in a way no friend had ever had the affect on him before. Then he’d lost it – the friendship and the something else, not quite defined, but _definitely_ different to the ‘friend’ thing. He lost it over and over; Louis stopped looking at him like he hung the moon just for him, his laughter became painfully forced and silences between them grew, to the point that, left alone together, and Harry felt worse than not seeing Louis around at all.

It puts the pieces of his heart back together, too, though – in the hopeful look on the fan’s face. The way her eyes shine, plump lips pulling into a smile so soft and genuine; Harry feeling all that emotion on her face coursing through him as well. He doesn’t even have to look at Louis to know he must be feeling exactly the same. Harry fell back in love, but he also found his best friend again.

“We’ve always been friends.” Harry decides to say, voice a little airy from the surrealism of being able to say anything on the subject at all. It might not entirely be true - a blind few years in the middle he wishes he could go back to, but it’s a part of their history - and although rewriting it wouldn’t be honest, this girl with her bright eyes and naivety deserves this version.

Explaining the story of Harry and Louis is too intricate for a moment like this and, deep down, no matter how much freedom they’re going to be handed over the coming weeks and months, it’s something he knows is just for them.

Later - when the photos have made the rounds, unfortunately including the inevitable shots of Harry staring at the girls from afar - the sun has set and an episode of _Great British Bake Off_ is on re-run in the background.

Harry combs his fingers through Louis’ hair, admiring the shadows that fall and flicker across Louis’ face in the saturated glow of the television, which serves as the only source of light. With every run of Harry’s hand that pulls ever so slightly on the roots of his hair, Louis’ blinking turns sluggish, and Harry wonders if he’ll fall asleep lying across his chest on their bed like this.

“What are they saying about it?” Harry asks calmly, watching the ceiling go from grey to black depending on whatever angle is being cut to on the cooking show, sometimes interchangeable in quick succession when a particular contestant’s time restraint needs more suspense. The repetition of his own movements through Louis’ soft hair making him a little drowsy.

“Erm…” Louis hums, scrolling through his phone to a stop before letting out a snort. “Apparently you’re a _real_ Casanova,” he cranes his neck to give Harry a ‘ _yeah right_ ’ sort of look before reading through the comments. “They make you sound so romantic! Listen to this-” Louis clears his throat before continuing in a mockingly swooning sort of tone, “‘Harry said it like Louis was his _whole_ world, he was almost breathless just looking at Louis, I nearly died just watching them.’”

Harry swats Louis’ hand with a lazy strike, a dimpled smile forming in the dark. “It’s sweet, don’t laugh.”

“I know, _I know_ ,” Louis agrees, his grin emphasised in the reflective glow of his phone screen. “Bu’ it is a little funny, you’ve got to admit.”

Harry doesn’t comment, simply smiling as he leans back against the pillows again.

“This one just quotes what you said about ten times,” Louis says, thumb hovering over the screen as he looks over yet another reaction post. He angles the phone so Harry can see and sure enough, there’s ‘we’ve always been friends’ repeated numerous times over, italicised, bolded and capitalised. Harry lets out a chuckle, amused that such a fly-away comment could mean so much to them. “They’re bloody dramatic too, look,” Louis scrolls a little further to reveal a post that simply states: _I can’t believe my larents did this to me i want to throw myself into the sun_.

“That sounds dangerous.” Harry deadpans, frowning at Louis who smirks. He watches Louis’ delicate forefinger go through someone’s blog, past photos of Harry and Louis at the cafe with the fans cropped out, a few brief posts about their clothing choices before one about the word ‘always’, catches Harry’s attention. “What’s with the fans and us and the word always? Did I miss something?” he asks.

Louis frowns. “Oh, I dunno. They’ve got an _insanely_ impressive collective memory. Must’ve been something one of us said.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Harry remarks curiously, “Things about our relationship that are so important to the fans, we don’t even remember, because they’re so ordinary to us.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Louis agrees in that really emotive way, that actually turns his voice sort of hoarse, even if he’s talking softly, even if he hasn’t raised his voice all day, “It’s sweet, y’know, that for a lo’ of the fans the littlest things between us are cherished.”

“And the other half think I slept with 400 women in a year, so…”

Louis barks a laugh, head digging back into Harry’s stomach; his whole body reacting before he settles and his muscles relax once more.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” Louis begins conversationally, eyes still on his phone, “They sure are makin’ this process a lot easier if they think a simple _look_ is romantic.” He eyes Harry then, coyness teasing at his lips. “I’d like to see you try and knock me off my feet with a _romantic look_ once in awhile.”

“Righ’,” Harry says with gusto, surging from a lying position to a sitting one as he lunges toward Louis, “That’s ‘nough of that!” Louis lets out a noise of surprise as his head flops back on the duvet where once it lay upon Harry. He just looks up at him, baffled by his boyfriend’s mischievous determination. When Harry offers no words of explanation, getting atop Louis, thighs bracketing his waist, Louis simply raises his eyebrows.

The split second of sexual tension dissipates the moment Harry bows his head, quite suddenly, and blows raspberries into Louis’ most ticklish spot at the dip of his neck and collarbone.  

“I take it back! No!” Louis shrieks the second Harry’s lips make contact, unsuccessful in jerking Harry away with his squirming movements, “ _I take it back!_ ” He lets out explosive giggles, wet and loud in the otherwise tranquil hotel room.

Then, somehow, Harry is cackling, too, and their combined laughter makes him feel as carefree as the sound itself; travelling up high to the ceiling, echoing a future filled with more of that - _so much more_ ; well, if Harry is as lucky as he knows he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So even though I wrote the other smut scenes I couldn't for the Lesbian Life of me bring myself to write the Miles High Club scene here. I wager it has something to do with how focused the scene is on the Male genitalia (more than anal somehow in my books) so... I actually handed that one over to my favourite Bisexual and person in general, [Phoebe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine). Aside from the introductory and closing parts, as well as a few added stuff of mine in-between, credit for that scene goes to her!
> 
> • Cara and Kendall attend a concert and ‘hang out’ back stage. Wearing a one direction ‘snapback’  
> • All dates and locations on tour are true
> 
> In the wise words of Harry Styles, they told me that the end is near... one chapter to go. Get hyped! See ya soon.


	14. End Of The Day

‘ _All I know at the end of the day, is you love who love, there ain’t no other way. If there’s something I’ve learned from a million mistakes, you’re the one that I want at the end of the day._ ’

On Halloween, Louis doesn’t see much of Harry; a blur of chocolate hair leaving a room, a tattooed hand reaching across the lunch table, a smile caught at the corner of Louis’ eyes in the middle of a conversation with someone else. The most of Harry he sees for a solid few hours as people congratulate and shake hands and direct Louis through rooms to sign things, to pose for pictures – is the brief morning stretch, Harry yawning wide as day breaks and the start of the end, begins. Today is their last show – and the nervous, chargeable energy between all four boys is palpable.

Well, the word ‘last’ is not something One Direction likes to put emphasis on. The finality is a little much, even for Louis, who – very much a fan of the dramatics - prefers to consider this a ‘pause’ of sorts, rather than a conclusive finish. But regardless of what the papers will say of their hiatus, the On The Road Again tour ends tonight, and there’s no rephrasing that’ll make that untrue.

With phrases like ‘end of an era’ being thrown around in conversations on the topic, Louis is feeling both joyous and saddened. He’s sure if Harry were by his side right now, he’d call it ‘bittersweet’. And he’d be right, too - because no matter how much Louis loves the road, touring and performing night after night, he can’t wait to take a break from it; slink away to a private life, see his little brother and sister more often, go clubbing with Lottie - even if her newfound legality is still somewhat of a panic-inducing concept for Louis as the protective big brother that he is. He wants to hear all about what Fizzy is learning at school, not just over the phone from some foreign city he doesn’t know how to pronounce, but _properly_ \- in person - so he can see the glint in her eyes as she tells him about her favourite subjects for himself. He wants to see his mum more often - stay up late with a cup of Earl Grey, listening to her warm laughter and her, warmer still, hugs. Maybe he’ll even travel - not as Louis Tomlinson, the popstar - but as a tourist, with his very handsome boyfriend in those pair of weird, white, alien-esque sunglasses he recently bought, and one of those Hawaiian shirts he’s so fond of in the summer months. Perhaps they’ll be hand in hand; smiling or bickering, Louis doesn’t mind. He wants all of it, even if just for a year,  or two - the boys haven’t figured out the exact details yet.

At first, the day isn’t so nauseatingly important. There’s a weight of difference about the whole thing, sure, but none of the band’s routine is thrown into disarray. It’s, in many senses, a day like any other. Harry works out in the gym, Liam joins him. Niall takes photos of his brunch for Instagram, although Louis suspects it’s really to send to his Mum, who - Niall explains mid-mouthful - is currently in-transit to Sheffield Arena, to try and convince her, after all these years, that the food on tour is hearty enough to keep her beloved youngest son healthy and well-nourished the way she likes.

“Liam, mate,” Louis says, expression that of pity, PlayStation controller slack in his hand, “Just quit while you’re really, _really_ not at all ahead.”

“Oh, _come on!_ ” Liam exclaims, far from admitting defeat, the grasp on his own controller suggesting he means business. “You’re afraid I’m gonna obliterate you out of nowhere. Watch your back, I say.”  

“Payno, there’s no way, in this life, that’s ever going to happen.”

Liam lets out a disgruntled noise, returning his attention to the game of FIFA at hand, which Louis can’t very well deny the man of, particularly when egos are involved.

Louis catches one of those rare glimpses of Harry then, the first since morning, as he heads through the rec room. He sends a somewhat weary smile Louis’ way, a sheen of sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, boxing gloves weighing down his arms to his side in a sluggish manner.

“Just give it a rest, Liam.” Harry says in a low, breathy voice; but he cracks a big grin at the reaction it receives, and then he’s vanishing - walking in and out - leaving a laughing impression, as he always does.

Then, somehow, an ordinary day of an ordinary gig, isn’t applicable. Louis, Niall, Harry, and Liam are surrounded by dozens of venue staff, members of the crew, family, and the band; faces glowing with the blindingly bright candles atop a very impressive celebratory cake. It all goes by in a blur, if Louis is honest - things like speeches and lots of phones documenting the whole thing - so he supposes he can look over it later, without that fuzziness at the corners that he gets with the actual memory of it.

Lou attacks Louis’ hair, just as she did the night before, just as she always has. Lottie makes a brief appearance as Lou’s temporary assistant, flourishing in the role she’s had for the better half of a week. She films parts of it for Snapchat, laughing whenever Louis pulls a face or lets out a noise at Lou’s jerking of his roots, before leaving Lou to her own devices. Louis reckons he’ll never quite figure out what takes at least an hour for her to do to him that makes it any different to the bed hair he wakes up with, and it’s soon after that he’s running his own hands through it, messing it up so that he feels more himself, much to Lou’s onlooking dismay.

He’s still scruffing it up when his phone vibrates in his back pocket with an incoming message, and he smiles his way out of the dressing room and into the green room - reading it over and over, though he won’t tell the rest of the boys that version later. 

> **Good luck tonight .. you’re gonna kill it ! So proud of you boys x**

Louis doesn’t even have to think when replying to Zayn’s congratulations. Months ago and he’d have ignored it, or stewed over a passive-aggressive ‘thanks a lot’ retort, before giving up with a lock of his phone along with a frustrated huff. This time, Louis keeps his eyes glued to the screen to reply:

> **Thanks lad !!! gonna be sick :)**

He thinks to tack on something more, like, ‘let’s hang out’ or ‘you’re welcome to the after party’, before catching himself a little. _That’d be overkill_ , he thinks. He’s glad to have Zayn in his life again, but it’s at a totally different capacity to before. Zayn and Louis both know that, and treading the line is healthy for them both, he thinks. Their friendship won’t ever reach the bond they had in the earlier days of the band, but Louis is okay with that. And maybe, someday, what fell apart between them will make room for something better - a friendship that’s stronger, with more respect. One that won’t be as explosive as it was in the past. _A phoenix from the ashes_ , Louis likens, if he’s going to be poetic.

 _Yeah_. For now, this is enough. This is right.

“Show time, boys.” Louis announces to the room at large, though that’s a slight fib, considering they’ve still got another twenty minutes up their sleeves.

Niall looks how Louis feels, leg fidgeting and nails bitten to the quick, stuck in that limbo of his mind and within the space between pre-show, and show time. Liam hides his nerves a bit better, though overcompensating with the amount of times he’s undoing his buttons to try on a new shirt, because apparently the one before it isn’t ‘Liam’ enough, and doesn’t make the right impression somehow, despite Louis reminding him that it’s ‘just a shirt, wanker’, in his most affectionate tone. And Harry - well, Harry just makes Louis not feel how Niall looks, not a bit. He’s sidled up on the couch, an empty yoghurt cup between his teeth, mumbling joyous nonsense when Lottie manages to throw a scrunched up tissue into the cup with perfect aim. Both of them react to the lucky shot by shooting their arms up in excitement, Lottie shouting a laugh, while Harry attempts a grin that looks a lot more like a grimace with some cardboard in the way.

It’s both an endearing and baffling sight to behold, considering the last time Louis saw them today they were deep in sincere conversation over the meaning behind each and every one of Harry’s tattoos, Lottie telling him earnestly which ones she dreams of getting one day. Louis can hardly keep up with their friendship, and he’s happy just to watch on the sidelines, a cup of tea in his hands and a smile at his lips.

“Louis.” A voice greets, levelled and sweet. It belongs to Gemma, and Louis already knows it before he turns to see her by his side, arms folded - a vision of a woman on a mission.

“Gemma.” Louis plays along, eyebrow arched, mirroring Gemma’s quirked one. He notices, only for a second, that her eyes are a little red in the corners, her cheeks flushed.

“Where’s that brother of mine?” she asks, though it’s not a proper question – more of an absentminded and vocalised thought – before she spots him for herself, eyes widening in recognition. Suddenly, she deserts Louis in favour of Lottie and Harry on the couch. Louis has nothing better to do, and judging by that signature Styles coy smirk, he figures this’ll be interesting.

They’re still making a game of the yoghurt container versus the old tissue, when Gemma interjects, “Who gave you the right to make your big sister cry like that?”

The cup drops from Harry’s mouth, comically, before he asks with a frown, “Sorry?”

Gemma feigns exasperation. “The _song._ ” To which Harry lets out an airy ‘ah’ of understanding. Louis and Lottie, on the other hand, exchange puzzled looks, and Gemma casually clarifies, “My fiendish baby brother over here thought it was alright to, firstly, make me listen to _If I Could Fly_ knowing full well it’d turn me into a blubbering idiot, with absolutely zero prior warning - but second of all - let me live my life without hearing anything of it at all for so long, when it was recorded _months_ ago!” Gemma’s rage might pass as believable, except that Louis’ grown accustomed enough to the way her voice turns haughty and posh with indigence, (reminiscent of Hermione Granger, Harry once observed) any time she’s trying to exaggerate an emotion.

Louis laughs then, looking to Harry to see what he’s got to say. To be fair, none of the band have been allowed to share parts of the album until the clearance a few weeks ago, and even then, the security around it has been insane. That’s probably due to how ruthlessly tech savvy the One Direction fan base can be, and that every album leading up to this one has been leaked early. For once, they’d like to release their album when they plan to. So _Made In The A.M._ has, for the most part, been shrouded in mystery. Even more so than Louis and Harry’s coming out plans - which most of their family, friends, and probably the boy down the road and his dog seem to know all about. Besides, Harry’s pride over writing a whole song for the album meant he wanted to wait to see Gemma’s reaction first-hand, rather than send a copy back home.

“What sort of logic is that, Gem?” Harry asks with a breathy laugh. “You’re mad with me for sharing it with you, and for not sharing it with you?”

“Precisely.” Gemma answers, stony resolve quite convincing to someone who might not know her as well as Harry, Louis, and Lottie do. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“M’sorry I made my big sister cry.” Harry says, sounding half serious, but mostly like he’s rehearsing a script.

“Can’t say I blame you, Gem,” Louis interjects conversationally, “There wasn’t a dry eye when we all heard it.” It’s not an exaggeration - the first time Harry felt comfortable enough to share his demo of _If I Could Fly_ \- a room of ten men dissolved into tears. Some blinked them back, blaming it on a lack of sleep or the even more cliche ‘something in my eye’ excuse. Louis can recall the first time he heard it, weeks before the rest, in the dark of their flat. Harry had been waiting for the perfect time to share it, not even sure if it would make the record, at the time - dangling the secret above Louis with a cheeky smile and a wink for weeks on end. _It’s not ready_ he’d said, and then he’d said he didn’t want Louis, and he’d walked away, and Louis has thought he’d never get to hear it.

Harry’d slid into bed – one of the nights after they’d gotten back together, where Louis was unusually quiet, withdrawn, and replaying the painful memories on repeat in his mind – _it’s ready_ , he had said. Louis hadn’t understood, not at first, and then Harry had played it. Words can’t describe the feeling of hearing Harry’s voice on that recording, baring his soul, knowing it was all for Louis, after a time of such destruction and sorrow.

Harry’s warm palm had instinctively smoothed out the tears, even in the black of the room, whispering sweet nothings. Hearing _If I Could Fly_ for the first time had helped Louis enormously, feeling shivers down his spine from the hot breath at his ears that told him _all this time, forever, always, it’s you._ He didn’t need the reminder after that, and when Harry sung it to him the following night, there weren’t nightmares of stuffy offices and broken promises anymore.

So among that room of crying men, of course, Louis had joined in.

Harry nods. “Liam cried buckets.”

“Wish I’d seen that.” Lottie comments, smirking up at her brother.

“Ten minutes, boys!” A voice calls from the doorway, and Louis doesn’t even get a chance to catch who’s saying it before the door shuts again.

“You heard the woman.” Harry says, getting to his feet, gravitating toward Louis without any real purpose, just wanting to be close. Louis gets that, feels instantly warmer at having Harry by his side for the first time all day. “Stop causing trouble, we’ve got a gig to play.”

“S’just a concert like any other, isn’t it?” Gemma teases, but even she can’t keep up the charade, breaking into a grin that’s dimpled just like Harry’s. “Come on,” she concedes, beckoning Harry close to pull him into a tight, sisterly hug.

“But what do you really think of it?” Harry mumbles, Louis just making it out while Lottie rises to her feet as well, and he slings an arm around her shoulder as she leans into him affectionately.

“Heartbreakingly beautiful and poignant, of course.” Gemma says, voice nearly cracking at the mention of it. If Louis didn’t know her so well, her sensitivity might be a surprise. But as it were, Louis has seen Gemma cry far too many times (along with Harry) in front of an episode of _Downton Abbey_ to even keep count.

Lottie, still under the weight of her brother’s arm, turns her chest toward his, suddenly hugging him very tight and close. “Break a leg.” she says with a shaky breath, burying her face so that only her tone gives away the tenderness of her emotion. She squeezes Louis in a way that makes him wonder if she’ll actually let him go, before finally doing just that, albeit reluctantly.

“Thanks, Lotts.” And Louis has to will himself not to get too overcome, in the bloody green room, when the show hasn’t even started and there shouldn’t be anything making him cry right now.

“I’ll be cheering front row. Mum, Dan, and the kids, too.”

Soon enough, everyone who isn’t One Direction gets ushered to their respective places until it’s just the four of them, and a few members of crew directing them backstage.

“Last show, eh?” Niall says, wiggling his eyebrows in emphasis.

“Absolutely mental.” Liam nods.

“Bring it in, then,” Louis puts his hand out in gesture, close enough now to the front of the stage that he can hear the buzz of the anticipating crowd.

“Let’s knock ‘em dead.” Niall says, all their hands joined in the centre of their huddle.

“We’ve got this.” Harry decides to say, calculatingly – because in a significant moment like this, Harry is anything but spontaneous.

They don’t know when they’ll get to do this again, Louis reminds himself, drinking in every second; from the cheap lights above their heads, to the way Harry still kisses the silver cross around his neck – perhaps not so much out of faith, but personal tradition. And that’s the beauty of it - not knowing, for the next few weeks, months, _years_ even. Louis can’t say for sure what’s to come, and that isn’t daunting at all. Not for one second.

# …

Those first few minutes on stage are like a dream - both in that it’s surreal; the cheers of the crowd, the rush of adrenaline as _Clouds_ begins, the instrumental blasting through the arena, lights blinding; but also because Louis is sure he just saw Batman. And Pikachu. And is that Britney Spears?

“Happy Halloween,” Harry says into the mic, just as Louis lets out a laugh, thumbs up appreciatively to a fan in the front row, dressed as Danny Zuko. “Thank you to those who dressed up. I can see a lo’ of you in costumes.” He looks at Louis across the stage, giving him a sly look, reminding him of the conversation they’d had over the very subject earlier in the week. The joke was about the abstract idea of them walking onto stage in couple’s costumes - laughing about Buzz Lightyear and Woody, Simon and Garfunkel, or Niall and Liam’s suggestion of Vivian and Edward from _Pretty Woman,_ which sparked a heated debate about who best suited the hooker. The four of them had made a light-hearted bet of the whole thing, but Niall and Liam lost. So it’s regular clothes tonight, much to Niall and Liam’s disappointment. And thank God, too - because that’s not _quite_ how Louis envisioned coming out. Harry casts his gaze out to the audience, smiling appreciatively at the array of characters in front of him. “Nice. Nice.”

For the most part, Louis feels he’s suspended in this moment - at this concert, in this arena, with these fans - their eyes glistening with a reverent awe. He blinks and five songs have gone by, and then _ten_ \- and he’s been reminded not to forget where he belongs, and he’s just hoping that this won’t ever change, with these four boys and these fans, not even if a decade separates them.

“ _Here’s_ a good one,” Liam’s voice echoes through the loudspeakers. He’s got his back to Louis, pointing out into the audience to a selection of posters being enthusiastically thrust in the air to get attention. “We’ve got someone from the Midlands,” Louis watches Liam scan the crowd from his seated position of a few meters behind in the runway of the stage. “You’ve got a girl over here that says she’s proud of Louis.” A pause, a rush of blood to Louis’ cheeks. “Who here is proud of your Yorkshire boy, Louis Tomlinson?” Liam asks the crowd at large, gesturing to Louis, who can’t contain the chuffed beam on his face.

It’s times like these that completely wipe the slate clean - everything bad anyone has ever said about him; the way he sings or the type of clothes he wears, anyone who tries to bring him down for his flamboyant mannerisms or the way he can’t stop staring at that one other member of the band because he’s _so obviously gay, dude -_ he remembers it all; but it doesn’t resonate, not when he’s got an arena filled to the brim of fans screaming their support.

He takes his phone out and videos the moment, knowing somewhere in the crowd that his sisters are whooping along with everyone else.

“Gives you an idea how _I_ feel ‘bout you,” Harry comes up behind him, leaning down, his mic precariously shoved in his back pocket where it won’t pick up his whispered comment. Louis turns to look at Harry in awe, not sure what to say, as Harry starts to back away casually. “S’only a fraction, though,” he says, gesturing with his thumb and index finger not even an inch apart, “Of how I feel about you.” His palm moves to his chest, splaying across his heart as he moves away from Louis.

Somehow, Harry expects - after a statement like that - for Louis to sit still and not follow him back to stage A. He lingers some, heels scuffing on the polished floor under him before he stands, fixes his fringe, and tries to look somewhat spontaneous with his decision to walk back up the runway to the main stage.

“Who enjoyed _Drag Me Down_ ?” Liam continues, a dot among the mass of fans to Louis, now that he’s on the A stage. Liam’s mention of the song previews reminds Louis that in two weeks, not only will he and Harry be out officially, but _Made In The A.M._ will drop. The crowd cheer in response. “Who enjoyed _Infinity_ ?” He prompts, sauntering from one edge of the island to the other. Once more, the arena hollers. “Who enjoyed… _Home_?” At that last one, Louis catches Niall’s mischievous grin as he toys with his guitar strings.

In the seconds after, with the entire audience clapping and yelling their enthusiasm, Louis shuffles across to where Harry stands; melancholy expression staring out at the sea of people to mutter, “I heard that last one is about Harry Styles.”

The pair of them have been keeping tabs on the fan reaction to the EP since it leaked a week ago, especially the theorists among them, who were quick to notice the song’s not-so hidden meaning. Louis doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how alert the fans are, how much easier it makes their coming out process to know they’re all drawing the right conclusions before anything has even been announced.

Harry doesn’t say anything aloud, but he does mouth ‘no’ in mock surprise, aghast, before breaking out into one of his huge, dimpled grins. Under the stadium lights, Harry looks radiant - and not in that showbiz, sweating, starlet sort of way - but truly, unimaginably, sun-like radiant. Louis won’t be surprised if he finds pictures of himself on Twitter tomorrow looking at Harry the way he is now. It must give away _everything_ , just the look that’s surely on his face.

Suddenly, all of Louis’ bided time is up. There’s no time for procrastinating at the corner of the stage or filming Liam up close, pouting into the camera through a ballad; there’s no time to see all the faces in the crowd and, with a look, promise that this is forever, even if it’s just right now. There’s not even time to regulate his quickened heartbeat before they’re off the stage.  

But almost as soon as Louis runs out of time, he’s granted some more; in the form of a strumming guitar beat, distinct in it’s Irish influence.

> _I won’t act my age, no,_
> 
> _I won’t act my age,_
> 
> _I’ll still feel the same and you will, too…_
> 
> _Hey!_

“One, two, three!” Harry bellows, the song nearing to a close, right as it hits the the final instrumental. The audience is jumping up and down enthusiastically to the beat, just as the four on stage leap about.

Louis scans the front row, catching a glimpse of his twin sisters at the back of a conga line, shuffling to every ‘na, na, na’. He doesn’t even have a second to let out a baffled laugh, too caught up in the song, and his friends, and just everything - all of it - and the conga line continues around the parameter of the middle stage. He sees Niall’s mother laughing, looking back at Normani in the line behind her, shining black hair swishing in the momentum. His gaze immediately pulls across the stage to Niall, who - although dancing around like an old man with a replaced hip - seems to have found Normani in the crowd, too. Louis stores the moment under ‘things to humiliate Niall over later’ in his brain, Niall’s expression of fond endearment too good not to tease him for.

The song ends and Louis is a little short of breath, Harry throwing water on the nearest dozen people who yelp at the initial splash, before easing into it, relishing the coolness in the stuffy mosh.

Liam laughs into his microphone, “I never thought I’d see the day my dad would lead the conga.” He points out to the line of family and friends, looking prouder than he ever has. The crowd lets out a collective ‘aw’, before Liam continues, “But seriously, big love to you all.”

“The best part was seein’ people trying to follow like - _can I see your ticket, please! Have you got a pass?_ ” Harry jokes, imitating security in a way that reminds Louis of a Charlie Chaplin skit.

Niall slings his arm around Louis, who watches on in dazed amazement. He begins kicking his legs out, jerking Louis around and singing _Act My Age_ through laughter. It’s half-hearted, but the band notice, and before Louis knows it, the final instrumental starts over again and he’s erupting into a jumping dance along with everyone else.

“Again! Again!” The families in the front row shout in unison, and Louis doesn’t get a chance to break before Josh and the rest of the band indulge their request, the backing track repeating. Niall cackles, not even properly joining in at first because he’s too overcome with laughter; and then he does an Irish jig, the kind that makes Louis wish he had pulled his phone out quick enough to record.

“One more time!” Harry shouts, Niall repeating his words with double the enthusiasm. By then, Louis isn’t even aware of how he’s dancing, or even if he _is,_ just that the band obliges, and Niall, Liam, Harry and Louis jerk to the Irish beat. Louis spends the twenty seconds of music caught up in everything around him - in the way that Harry’s arms swing around, carefree; the way Liam grins uncontrollably; and the way Niall, always somewhere near, jives past Louis with no sign of exhaustion.

Everything good must, inevitably, come to end; and although the families shout ‘one more time!’ from the stands while Harry jokes that the people in the upper seats must be _furious_ because they can’t join in, the encore of _Act My Age_ does finish there.

“Thank you so much! That’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

Niall totters along cheekily and quickly announces, “We’re gonna get drunk tonight!” In a sing-song voice, and Louis feels a surge of excitement in his chest at the prospect of what’s to come, mixed with the hint of fear that this will be over.

“Sheffield!” Harry’s voice booms through the arena. “We could not ask for a more perfect finishing tour,” the light hits his face, silhouetting his body, Louis watching the way his broad shoulders relax and tense with every arm gesture and stride across stage. “Thank you so much.”

Liam distracts Louis’ locked gaze by crossing to interact with the family and friends, prompting him to join in. He looks for familiar faces before landing on Lottie, Jay, and Dan - the rest of his sisters somewhere else in the crowd, he isn’t sure exactly. The second Jay’s eyes land on her son it’s with a beaming smile and a wave, the kind she’d done when sitting front row of his high school musical between _You’re The One That I Want_ and _Grease Lightnin’_. He could be half-way across the world and there his mother would be, proudly cheering him on, like always.

Lottie looks like she might cry - from joy, Louis expects - and it’s a little surprising to see her so overcome. He’s sure she’ll blame her glistening doe eyes on Louis’ non-existent poor eyesight, or, at the very least, a trick of the stadium lights.

“If you got here by car, plane, train…” Harry’s voice continues, Louis balancing on the edge of the stage to reach out and air-five Lottie in the pit below, “Wha’ever! Please get home safely.” Something in the comical clumsiness of Louis attempting to reach her, from metres away with the palm of his hand out expectantly, gets Lottie’s face to light up with laughter, and he vows to himself that he’ll feign ignorance later when she asks if he noticed her brush away a single tear. “We will be seeing you all very soon.” Harry’s omnipotent voice promises, Louis knowing in his heart that it’s true. “Please have a good night,” Jay pulls her arm around Lottie, swaying with her daughter by her side in strident comfort, mouthing words to Louis that he can’t quite lip-read and _definitely_ can’t hear over the screams of the arena. Whatever it is, he’ll have time later - boundless time - to hear all of it. Not just from Jay, or Dan, or Lottie - but also from the boys and their families, from the crew right through to the caterers. Everyone behind them, Louis feeling the weight of the world completely evaporate in the heat of the stage lights. “We’ve been One Direction. This is _What Makes You Beautiful._ ”

# …

 _What Makes You Beautiful_ \- their most played song - certainly has legs. For a song people pegged as a one-hit-wonder, Louis figures he and the rest of the boys should probably be sick of it by now. But, even years on from it’s initial release, the song energises them like no other, and Louis is beginning to think it has some sort of mystical quality in the strumming of its vaguely reminiscent _Summer Nights_ tune, one that transports everyone back to 2011 and reinvigorates them with their youthful, naive selves.

Louis tosses a beach ball between himself and Niall before snatching a can of silly string from an audience member and proceeding to spray the entire front row with the plastic stuff, feeling like an 80’s Tom Hanks in _Big -_ which, actually, is quite fitting, considering that film is about a 13-year-old trapped in an adult’s body. He doesn’t quite feel like a twenty-three year old mature adult doing a thing like that; so, of course, he’s going to blame it on the way Niall sings _so c-c’mon, you got it wrong, to prove I’m right I put it in a s-o-ong._

The _What Makes You Beautiful_ spell is broken, snuffed out with a swift grope of Niall’s backside from Harry when he least expects it, while Liam and Louis play tackle each other on the sidelines. Somehow, even after childish tomfoolery such as that, the tone goes from light, to significant and serious in a breath.

Niall does a speech - talking of five years, five boys; then four, eight and a half million fans; but Louis isn’t totally listening. Instead, it dawns on him, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, that this is truly ending. He stares wistfully out at the audience; but a moment of private reflection doesn’t last long around the boys, and Liam tries his best to get Louis to fall flat on his bum, without a lot of success. And honestly, he’s thankful that he doesn’t get that privacy, because then where would he be? Alone on a stage without his two best friends and the love of his life? He’d take Liam interrupting a poignant moment any day over that.

“Love you, Payno.” Louis decides to say - quiet - but Liam is so attentive that he may as well have shouted it from the rooftops. He stops what he’s doing instantly - arms already around Louis’ shoulders, previous intent abandoned in favour of a suffocating hug. Liam’s nose digs into Louis’ shoulder and he feels himself being rocked side to side in the swaying of Liam’s grip.

There’s a split second of Louis watching Harry hug Niall that his heart sinks, because they haven’t _talked_ about this - they haven’t been physically affectionate properly, on stage, in years. His gut squirms in that moment; nervous and unsure. And then Harry does what he always does - he makes Louis’ heart soar - striding confidently at him, like he doesn’t have to think for even a fraction of a second about if this is okay or not.

Louis can’t help but remember all those years ago, being at the same The Script concert, the same bathroom; and then again, the same band; and then - _somehow_ \- the same fucking flight out of Dubai. And now here they are, minutes from finishing their last concert after five years of music and touring and heartbreak and heart healing and falling in love – twice over – and the future looks so blindingly bright.

Louis has never been a big believer in fate, but he believes in Harry. Something tells him Harry believes in him, too.

Harry and Louis’ chests collide in the force of the hug, so much so that it’s Harry’s patting arm that brackets Louis’ body back into the embrace. Louis has one arm around Harry’s neck, the other clinging to his waist, feeling like a wave of water has crashed over them both; cool and invigorating, enveloping them, cleansing them. His eyes fall shut on instinct, smelling the soft scent of Harry’s hair, transported to early morning showers and wet laughter and sudsy soap over inked biceps.

The roar of the crowd roots Louis to time and place; without it he’d float to another dimension in Harry’s arms, he’s sure of it. It’s just so fucking loud for them - the love and support radiating in that arena more than Louis could ever have expected. If they only knew how far Louis and Harry have really come - from stilted conversations on planes, to loving looks across the stage, lingering tender touches between hands and waists for all to see. If the fans noticed Louis and Harry’s magnetisation to one another before, then the past few weeks have been a minefield. And there’s only more to come.

Harry whispers “I love you,” into Louis’ shoulder, chest heaving with his shortness of breath, sending a shiver down Louis’ spine. It’s so quiet - especially drowned out by the noise around them - but Louis hears it. Dreamy and low, he hears it.

Then, somehow, Louis doesn’t feel so much on display, not in the way an arena filled with 13,000 people should make him feel, anyway. It’s more like the exposure of an intimate party, nerves still on edge in the moment of affection they put on, but nevertheless harmless, and safe. It’s far from disingenuous – the sea of people; if anything, it brings home just how _real_ this life is. These fans... they’re family, and they’re here for good. So Louis has the urge to do what he’d do if he were anywhere else but where he actually is, with the stadium lights beating down upon him and everyone watching. It feels safe, it feels right. Never mind what the rest of the world will think come dawn.

Harry’s the first to lift his head from Louis’ singlet, pulling away from the hug, their eyes meeting, and Louis thinks: _we’re so close to coming out. Why not? Why not this one thing?_ Louis gives Harry barely a second’s warning - a lick of his lips, eyes falling to Harry’s mouth and thumb gently circling the nape of his neck as if to say _come here._

With a tug of Harry’s shirt front, Louis lifts onto his tiptoes, ignoring the way his stomach is suddenly filled with butterflies or that this is the last thing he ever imagined doing. Harry catches on, with that minute gesture, breath hitching and arms tightening around Louis in answer.

 _This is maddening_ , Louis thinks, eyes shut and lips pressing to Harry’s, _this is the best fucking thing_. He can feel himself shaking, and Harry must, too, because his sturdy hands remain steadfast, anchoring Louis to the kiss. The hand that was at the back of Harry’s neck has trailed to his front, sliding up into his messy curls in the seconds ticking by when their lips haven’t parted and the audience are screaming at the top of their lungs.

Harry’s kiss is warm and a little firm in the spontaneity of it, but soft, _so fucking soft_. Louis is even sure he can feel Harry smiling into it, and the mere idea brings the same pull to his own lips. He wants to do this forever – until the band have packed up, and the audience have made the long-winded journey out of the pact stadium, to their cars and eventually all the way home - so that it’s just the two of them kissing in the dark of the after hours.

When, eventually (though it can’t be as long as it feels in Louis’ head) they do pull apart, Louis feels out of breath in the best way, looking out at the audience, knowing his cheeks must be a crimson red. Harry does the same, his expression dazedly happy and features flushed. He quickly plants a kiss on the side of Louis’ cheek, which makes Louis let out a self-deprecating laugh, with the backing track of thousands of encouraging fans, Niall and Liam frozen in the middle of their own embrace behind Harry, laughing on in disbelief.

For so long the best parts of Louis’ life were made to divide; hands grazing between interviews, eyes averting during a show, countless denials and secrecy. Both worlds could never collide - he could have Harry, he could have this dream career - but not together. Never as one. Now, he feels the cosmic force of his universes merging, one where he gets Harry and everyone knows it. Louis never paid much attention to the Big Bang theory in science class, but he’s pretty fucking sure this takes the cake. So here Louis and Harry stand; arms wrapped around each other, lips kiss-stained and hearts open - to the stadium, to the world and to the future.

And it’s golden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!!!! Is it cringe? Is it cliche?!? Who cares!
> 
> Holy shit didn't even think I'd get here. A year in the works, I could probably get really emotional about how much I've achieved during writing this but... I don't wanna embarrass myself. 
> 
> So I'll just say this: thank you to everyone who took a chance on a WIP by a new fandom member, anyone who stayed up at ungodly hours to speed through it, and to any new readers who might come along in the future.  
> This fic is my baby, I lost and gained so many things over the course of writing this... but most importantly I found my best friend, Phoebe. I am eternally grateful for her constant support, plotting and editing of this fic. I could write novels about how great Phoebe is. A special mention goes out to my self proclaimed Spatula anon - your anonymous messages not only restored my self confidence about writing, but you are truly an exceptionally kind person who's uplifted my spirits many times over. Thank you! 
> 
> I intend to write more Larry fics in the future so don't forget me! :) 
> 
> I won't get into all the canon details referenced in this chapter because there's too many omg. Basically, a majority of the dialogue and actions on stage are word for word what actually happened. Some you might know of more famously like the Larry hug and the little dance the boys did to Act My Age - but most of the tiny attentions to detail are canon too. I watched [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dYzZc3udEgw%20) of it to get all the stuff right, so I suggest watching that to fact check because I'll be here all night otherwise! 
> 
> I will link [the Larry hug](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2iGTfffGV2c) though :)
> 
> I'm available at harryrainbows.tumblr.com to chat!


End file.
